The Rules
by Cicatrick
Summary: Han/Leia. GFFA: Jewels 'verse. For Knighted Rogue's birthday: a lopsided love triangle, told in facets.
1. Prixati Rell

He could not make Princess Leia laugh.

Prixati Rell had received her smile, yes. Thrilled to it back on Yavin IV, just after he joined the Alliance. Any notice from the Princess had delighted Prixati then, even if, had he the critical insight to note it, he'd rather _expected_ her esteem. Assumed it would rapidly accrue, in fact, once she got to know him. Once he'd scaled the ranks to her favor.

He'd seen bootleg footage of the Death Star's explosion. Galactically censored by the Empire but it was irrepressible, the holonet transmission that launched a worldswide wave of enlistments. But it wasn't the magical trajectory of the instantly iconic X-wing that shook Prixati from his own complacent, pampered course. That demanded he abandon his business career, his old-money Shaugh Coroneti clan, their plans for him. That made him leave Mykell, the girlfriend he'd only just chosen a spectacular green stone for in West Coronet's exclusive jewellery quarter.

That spark, for Prixati Rell, came later.

It was one night a few weeks after. At a gambling party in the penthouse apartment of a partner from the investment firm where he worked, Prixati busted out fast at sakresh, so he idly watched the random holofiles projected on the wall-sized media screen. A steady stream of interplanetary gags, practical jokes, speeder mishaps, luxury sportship ads; the ubiquitous pornography that fuelled so much bankers' entertainment. _Are we not Coroneti males?_ the loudest fund manager, Evor Pano, heckled Prixati whenever he objected to that. _It's the rules._

Prixati looked hurriedly away from yet another carnal act. Thinking, unwillingly, of Mykell: he guessed he loved her, definitely had certain feelings for her, but they were waiting until their wedding night for, well. That. Was their chastity part of the reason he'd presented her with the _emerzel_? Or was it that his father exulted over what an asset Mykell would make, should Prixati someday wish to run for mayor? Marriage was a contract, Cyro Rell advised his sons, and a man must market wisely for a bride. As he would a ship! There were rules for it, negotiation, selection. _Price._ And somehow, it was as though protecting this investment that Prixati dropped his eyes from the sight of writhing bodies, set to pulsing sound that throbbed not in the ears but in the—

It was the abrupt change in music that jerked Prixati's attention back to the screen. Trumpets, triumphant fanfare. He saw huge sliding doors: the tall man first. Serene blond boy. Wookie. Not a habitual drinker, Prixati was tipsy enough to record them only in the abstract, the male trio striding the broad aisle to...an altar? He didn't connect their frames, their faces to the names that had so quickly become culturally familiar—even if, in the Empire-moneyed circles Prixati travelled, spoken only in uneasy whispers _._

But Prixati knew the girl standing alone on the dais. Knew the stunning face from the holopapers; the tiny figure, crown of hair; delicate shoulders, spine, fine chin. Huge sable eyes, sad, wise. Unknowable grief making her mere appearance an act of breathtaking defiance.

Prixati Rell trembled with the awe, the honor of bearing her witness: Leia Organa, the Last Princess.

 _Those terrorists about to marry each other?_ Pano hollered from his repulsor recliner, to general snickering. Then he leaned forward, peering at the regal girl in the silver collar. _Shiiiit._ Pano, another wellborn Shaughnessi, liked to swear as though he was native to the Number Five Kasava. _Look at that dress._

 _Do you know who that is?_ Prixati forced the words through numb, outraged lips.

 _Sure. Hot piece of ass made it off Alderaan._ Swiping his just-spiced nose on a diament-linked cuff, Pano switched the scene to a chained, writhing Twi'lek dancer. _Hey! There's a job for an ex-Princess—_

The room exploded in goatish laughter.

Prixati Rell got up and left.

XXXXXXXXX

He soon found it at home, in the fine suite allotted him in his parents' manor when he reached majority. The full ceremony, not just the brief clip, and in the highest definition credits could buy. Yes, this must be Luke Skywalker; smaller, slighter and smilier than he'd pictured, shorter than Prixati, few years younger. Similar coloring to his, blond, blue-eyed. The Wookie was...well, a Wookie. Not much to factor there. Fangs. Garbled roar. Plentiful hair.

It was with a shock of mixed pride and rivalry that Prixati recognized the tall man for worldfellow. Only a Corellian would so assuredly take the lead—the focus of the attention, but also of any danger—down the aisle. But. Not only was this man Corelli-born, Prixati felt suddenly, unaccountably sure, he was from Coronet.

Further even to that: he was Coroneti _of a certain type._

Prixati involuntarily thought this last in his mother's lofty tone. Then heard his father's slur, spoken with comfortable contempt whenever traffic rerouted them through the slums of East Coronet: _dirty_ _'stucken_. And that's what both Cyro and Darga thought, that the Coroneti underclass were mired, _stuck_ in a pit of their own bad choices. This was, if you asked the Rells, reflection of a natural order that precluded the trouble of public education, accessible medicine. They begrudged even food! When he was a teenager Prixati had seen, from their luxury speeder window, a sandwich passed by a nurse to a ragged girl beggar his own age. In the front seat Darga benignly sighed, shook her head, as though neglect was the only true compassion.

At his mother's queenly exhaustion, it had risen in him: an instinctive feeling of, if not quite injustice, then imbalance: the sick suspicion that all the wild privileges his family enjoyed—what his parents called their _successes_ —came at the expense of someone else. That the Rells could live at the rarefied level they did only because that street-girl lived as she did. He'd suppressed the thought; had to, to go on in his own life. But watching the other Corellian stride toward the podium, Prixati felt it again now, a defensive shame hot and itchy as a half-healed cut.

Hipshot walk. Broken nose, curl to the lip. Right hand curled too, slightly at his long thigh, where he wore his blaster with all the brusque honesty of his scar.

Han Solo was unmistakably _Estok_.

 _Yet not_ 'stuck _at all, Father,_ Prixati thought, and a new feeling welled in his throat, cancelling out the flare of guilt: a peculiar, childlike, aggrieved betrayal, like finding out Father Vintner was a myth. His parents had misrepresented something essential. For there Han Solo was, easily climbing the stairs to the celebratory podium where she stood. To _Princess Leia._

And Prixati Rell was not. Prixati Rell, for all his parents had glibly assured him about himself, sat like a nesting doll in damask robe in his tanned-nerf chaise in his sumptuous set of rooms, upholstered with silks and fitted with fine woods, glinting metals. Prixati Rell was getting no medal. Prixati Rell, thank you all so much, was going to be woken at dawn by his valet with kaffe and toast, and then eight lengths in the pool before work he didn't need to go to in the first place.

On his datapad screen, Princess awaited her honorees with no impatience or discomfort in her person, just—timelessness. Grace. She smiled warmly at the Wookie, at Skywalker. These interactions felt right to Prixati, so right he forgot them immediately. It was Princess Leia's interaction with Han Solo that Prixati never forgot. The brief, recorded chemical reaction that worked its way under his skin, altered his life forever.

As Prixati watched, Han Solo halted the proper number of steps below the Princess—rules of royal approach that an _Estok_ surely hadn't known but had been directed to follow, and he did to the letter. But then Solo broke them, fast and deliberate as if he'd snapped some holy tablet in half over his strapped knee. He held the Princess' eyes and smiled at her—smiled! in the regal presence, at such formal occasion!—wide and unabashed, even delighted, as though all he'd ever felt about himself was pride. He was too big to be boyish, too common to be so relaxed. He was not solemn, he was not grateful! If anything, Han Solo was playful. _Playful,_ in the sight of this exquisite marble martyr.

Prixati ground his teeth.

Princess Leia looked levelly back at Solo, then reached for a medal. Solo's medal, first. Solo ducked his disgracefully shaggy head, humble and correct, but when he rose with her gold around his neck—oh, when he rose, Prixati caught a shocked, indignant breath at the light in his unusual eyes. A daring so brazen that it suddenly seemed as though Solo had stopped where he did on the steps not out of propriety, but to place himself at perfect height to steal her kiss.

And then Solo did it, went further. With no knowledge, ever, that his gesture would be the catalytic grit forming Prixati Rell's life-altering decision like seastone in an Eastern Ocean oyster.

Han Solo winked.

Winked! At Princess Leia. Prixati cursed aloud with the outrage of it. Somehow it was worse, to him, then Pano's crudeness—that was just absurd, royalty made dancing girl. But to wink at her: wink? This _Estok?_ Unthinkable cheek. Like this finest of ladies was a cantina maid who'd brought him ale. No, worse again: like a private joke, like they were friends, or if not yet, then they could be, that Solo felt they would be: an inevitability, that _a Princess_ succumb to his rough charm.

Prixati waited for the Princess to put Solo in his place. She had that severity to her affect, an exacting judgement that surely made her accolades all the sweeter to receive.

But she did not. The Princess did not frown, she did not scowl. She did not snap her slender fingers and demand the upstart's removal to the tower. In fact, she looked away so wryly, so swiftly, that Prixati could swear she was hiding a laugh. Yes, unmistakable amusement illuminated the features she kept elegantly still. Even as she turned to complete her ceremonial obligations.

But before she did that, Prixati glimpsed her flash of curiosity. _Pleasure._ Yes, as though she hadn't quite made up her mind about Han Solo, and liked the puzzle—and Prixati's heart sank to see it, to know it, that Solo was as intriguing, as faceted as he was flat. As rare and wild as Prixati Rell was settled, dutiful banker as opposed to trigger finger. That scar. Prixati ran a hand over his own unmarred jaw, satiny with expensive balm. Lords, even Solo's eyes were strange, a high, lupine green, lighter than emerzel but flaring Corellian interest all the same.

That _wink._ That slight, affecting tug to her tender pink lips.

There was a distance, the difference between Shaugh and East Coronet, and for the first time a Rell felt this gulf in his disfavor.

So. No matter what Prixati Rell told the Alliance enlistment panel, no matter what he he told others and himself so insistently and often even he believed it later, it wasn't Skywalker's already-iconic shot that made Prixati spring up that instant and pack a bag. Purposely light, in repudiation of everything around him. _I'm a survivor too._ It was not zealotry, not ethics that made Prixati go down to the Rell hangar, set out in the Fortunas Rex; send text-notes to his parents, brothers, to Mykell only once he was safely past the system. It was never what was right that drove him, never a hatred of tyranny, never a principled commitment to freedom or peace.

It was envy.

Prixati wanted that gold for himself. But not any gold; gods, his own home was inlaid with the metal everywhere you looked, he'd never even liked it. Yet he felt the weight of it at his breastbone as he flew toward Yavin, heard the whisper of royal fingers on that shimmersilk ribbon as she strung the medal over his neck. Without that weighty accolade Prixati felt without gravity, even on cruising autopilot. He felt a _lack._ Like the medal was his, meant for him, and some slick pickpocket had lifted it.

With a wink.

XXXXXXXXX

On Yavin IV, Prixati Rell conceded that, in person, Solo had ruffian appeal, if you were partial to his _type._ An undeniable presence, a brute charisma. But he swore with the filthiest verve and imagination, making Prixati wince. Solo was a contractor, further to that—not even a member, and the Rebels seemed not to fault him—many liked him, he was even valuable to them. It galled Prixati to see Solo across the hangar, common smuggler working on that clunky beast (the Rells had never been partial to the vulgar YT line) as though he had every right to be there—even though the rules, plain as porridge in the Alliance handbook, stated that parking bays were accessible to enlisted forces only.

He walked with loose disdain and keen eyes. Seemed to run on skepticism and attitude, that blaster at his thigh. Uncouth, to wear it as much as he did: along the corridors, in the dining hall, even to the ragtag but charming social events put together by the Rogues. Must he declare it, his danger? Like an adder? Prixati was decent with a blaster, too, but he would rather his compatriots knew he trusted them than wear such glaring leather warning.

For his part, Solo took no interest in Prixati. Those eyes—even stranger yet in the flesh, they seemed to change color with the light, which surely signified an _Estok_ fickleness in his nature—flicked right over Prixati, resolutely empty. This was even worse because often both men worked late on their ships, several bays apart but in the hangar alone together, and still nothing but crude Corellian curses issued from Han Solo's lips! And these only to himself, his huge hairy pet, or his ungainly ship. Those jungle nights, Prixati felt like a ghost haunting the luxurious _Rexi—_ if a sweaty phantom. But, Corellian physiology or no, he refused to shed his coverall. _Someone_ had to show that not all their folk were so classless to strip to white undershirt, torn across the chest.

Tasteless.

It irritated Prixati, his nonexistence felt paradoxically personal: like any acknowledgement at all—even open dislike—was a qualifier that Solo slyly chose to withhold. But this supposition led in turn to uncomfortable thoughts of—why would he want Han Solo's notice, good or bad? Did that not warn of a certain weakness to Prixati's character? So he soon chose to think Solo was simply unobservant, didn't know he was there. Or, perhaps, Solo was ignorant of Prixati's status, a worldsfellow, a cityfellow even. _Or-_ or—most reassuring still—Solo well knew that Prixati was a Rell, and was observing social caste.

Prixati could almost feel expansive toward him then, if not quite friendly, to consider Solo as insecure due to his inferior class. Close enough to hear Solo speak, the laconic drawl fooled Prixati not at all; even in that voice all the women loved (ugh) jagged Olys inflections gouged his eardrums. (Wedge Antilles' _homespech_ was better, though you couldn't say Wedge was quite impressed, either, when Prixati referenced his family name.)

The dream of enlistment fell short in many ways. The moon was hot, the work unglamorous; no conflicts, and training was exhausting. Flight and blaster drills, monotonous. He enjoyed the socializing, liked the people; the food was uninspired. No action! And the cause—the cause, most days, seemed nebulous to Prixati. He felt, often, as though he were on a long, strange vacation, like his fellow bankers went on to prove their toughness to themselves and other men. Bare-bones camping. Swimming with sharks.

Leia Organa made it all worthwhile.

Onscreen she was lovely. In person, she was an impossible force: a celestial event. She made the mouth hang open, drew the eyes, commanded attention. Luminous as a dew-moon, yet intense as a sun. Regal even in her plain fatigues. If Solo was charismatic, then Leia (it was difficult to call her that even in his thoughts, but she insisted, though Prixati just as insistently addressed her with honorifics) was magnetic.

Utterly magnificent.

 _That, Father, is a woman._

Her smile. Princess Leia's smiles. He counted them, classified them, hoarded and gloated over them like a Billinus dragon. When Prixati volunteered first to tackle a nasty chore, or offered her his seat in the mess hall (she always refused, with the most charming blush), offered to show her some tricks to fix the X-wing she trained on, Leia smiled at him and he knew it was trite but it was—it was like light, a light shining in all the heretofore unknown corners of his mind, his heart, his soul and he could see into himself: Prixati Rell! Knew the man he would become, with her help.

But then he heard her laugh.

Leia's laugh! it was rich, carbonated and energizing as fizz-kaffe. He heard it the first time with, of all beings, Chewbacca. Chewbacca! Prixati supposed it was amusing, in the manner of any mascot. But Leia didn't laugh indulgently at it— _him?_ —as at a gamboling lothkitten; she laughed naturally as though she understood his warbles. She laughed immediately and frankly, at unladylike volume, jerking Prixati's head up as he polished the chromium plating on his ship. She laughed, in fact, knowingly, _wickedly,_ as though the Wookie had made a witticism.

The giant being and the tiny were watching Han Solo when she laughed. Watching the swearing smuggler tangling with that doubtfully-rigged radar dish on that scientist's monster he called the _Falcon._ He inched out on a slender mech's scaffolding pole above the roof, hair standing up every which way, shirtless—it was a powerfully hot tropical day, but _shirtless!_ His long legs, emblazoned with the brave stripe Prixati was vexed to discover Solo had earned and not stolen— _Han has both classes, actually,_ Leia had said through her beautiful teeth when Prixati had expressed genteel surprise at this—remained wrapped with blue cloth for traction, but his sweating arms slipped.

With a squawk Solo swung around the pole, leaving him dangling upside down from his bent knees. Not in any danger; he was over thick rubberized safety mats that his Wookie had laid out beneath him, making a sound that was almost scolding. Solo swung gently a moment, looking like some huge, tanned Dathomiri bat. Then, his face determined, he lunged upward at trim waist. Performing a kind of reverse sit-up, Han lunged for the bar with a paw, and missed.

And then the Wookie had grunted his primitive joke and Leia Organa had...laughed.

This scene jolted Prixati in much the same way the medal ceremony had. Why, precisely? It was hard to say; something in the unashamed verve of Leia's laugh, the way Han Solo shot her a hot look back. A smile tugging at his taunting lips, as skewed as everything on his _stupid stupid stupid_ ship.

 _Gemme down from here y'big furball,_ Han yelled, and Leia cupped her hands at her red lips to call back _sorry, Mr. Solo,_ _assistance for Alliance personnel only!_ And this got a laugh back from Han, big lusty sound that made Leia's eyes shine.

Eyes that should, really, be averted from this bared male torso for seemliness.

Prixati knew, by then, that the two were friendly. They'd recently gone on that Coronet mission together, the one Prixati was sure he'd be tapped for. It was a tremendous success, apparently, though the details were kept maddeningly under wraps. But even he could see the two were closer than ever, thick as thieves—thick as pickpockets, Prixati thought sourly. Conspiratorial looks in briefings, coming back from training together. Skywalker with them, often, but—it was different, with Han and Leia. Lords, and people started to say it that way, too, toward the end of the Rebels' station on Yavin: _Han-and-Leia._

 _Ah fucksake,_ Han Solo sighed, resignedly swinging, folding his arms across his bare chest. And not only did Leia Organa not icily withdraw from his obscenity, _she laughed again._ Fondly. Affectionately! Prixati had the intuition that Han Solo was performing for her, yet again. Like the wink. The liberty of him. How could a Princess allow it? If she were not so spectacular, so beautiful and clever, Prixati would almost think less of her for it.

XXXXXXXXX

It was two weeks on Hoth, Han Solo finally nowhere to be seen—Solo had not made the move from Yavin at the same time, and so Prixati had assumed he'd grown bored and moved on, in the feckless and selfish way of his kind—that Prixati invited the Princess aboard the _Rexi_ for dinner. He liked to cook, had many all-world delicacies preserved in his stores, as he was delighted to discover now that the novelty of _roughing it,_ of _toughness,_ had worn off. Leia would welcome a return to the luxurious standards of her upbringing.

But Leia had refused an evening dinner. Refused afternoon drinks. She had, when politely pressed, agreed to come aboard for morning tea—which, though he hadn't meant it as a test, Prixati approved of, being the most appropriate choice for a Princess—and she'd smiled and thanked him. But lately, Prixati did not prize Leia's smiles so much: they made him think of the engraved platinum plaque given to his father when he retired from CorelliaBank, set with jewels of incalculable value. Beautiful, impersonal. Worth more than an _Estok_ house.

By now Prixati knew she gave them out often, these smiles, and they did not always reach her trademark eyes. Not because she was a fake, of all things the Last Princess of Alderaan was not that. But because her resources had been so diverted, here on Hoth—he saw her shivering, sometimes, when no one was looking—she did not have the heat to spare. It was a matter of survival, and even Prixati, more frustrated and bored by the day, did not begrudge her that. She was an essential figure to the galaxy; he was not.

There was coolness to those public smiles. Restraint. No radiant starlight burst, not like with...the _Estok._ And Prixati hadn't imagined Leia like that, had he? No, he had imagined her merging with him, with his heroism.

Still, this was Hoth. He would simply have to work harder to warm her.

Prixati had offered to show Han Solo the _Rexi_ , back on Yavin, just before they transported out. He told himself he was being nice, but in truth he was trying to force an acknowledgement of what was, by now, thickly unspoken mutual antipathy. Force some contest. _Hey Solo,_ he'd said, in front of a group, so they'd know who the good guy was, the righteous victim was, when Solo ignored him yet again. _Would you like the chance to come_ _aboard a Nubian Customclass?_

The Customclass was an impossible machine, impossible dream, impossible to attain unless you were, in fact, a scion of Rell means. The magnanimous sweep of Prixati's extended arm somehow expressed this exclusivity. But Han, undershirted and bloodstriped as ever, had slid his mechstylus behind his ear, tilting his head with a look of flinty bemusement, as though Prixati had insulted him—or clumsily tried—instead of making a frankly generous invitation.

Solo cocked his hip and said, stretching his long tawny arms above his head, the only words he had yet addressed directly to Prixati Rell. _I_ have _had the chance,_ Solo almost yawned but in a measured way, _to come aboard a Nubian Customclass._ He turned those gold eyes directly onto Prixati's. _Tekkis ta._

And it was Solo's lack of emphasis on the suggestive words, it was the bitter punch he gave the _Estok_ phrase for _thanks,_ it was the unhurried stretch of the long, lean body afforded him by nothing but luck, that made the implication unmistakable. Made the Rogues laugh. Made Prixati so angry he had to smile helplessly back, blinking his own blue eyes fast, trying to think of a retort. Later he thought, seethingly awake in his plush king bunk, that the problem with men like Solo was that they confused their cynicism with authenticity. Their life-struggles with strength. Poverty with resilience!

He should have said all that, against the sexual declaration of Solo's stretch. He would have, if Princess Leia had been there. Leia was not there, but she was all Prixati could think of, finally dropping off to sleep: _that_ was the man who got Leia Organa's real smiles. The smiles that lit her entire face the way Prixati had once felt spotlit himself, by her attention.

When Prixati showed Leia the _Fortunas Rexi_ she was faultlessly gracious. Kept her dainty hands neatly at her sides as she followed his tour. She asked intelligent questions, but all the while he sensed other thoughts—calculations?—clicking along behind her stunning eyes. Sensed another self, one he could not reach. Know. Touch. He joked, he joshed, and she smiled; but there was no laugh.

Prixati knew Princess Leia was at war. He knew she'd lost her planet, was sworn to avenge it; it wasn't as though he expected her to be impressed with the 'fresher's rhodium faucets. But the state-of-the-art missile array? Maybe a little?

As the Princess finished her tea and rose to take modest leave before eleven am, one of those crisp smiles on her face, Prixati sighed. Leia was royalty, she'd been reared in wealth and title far surpassing his own, she wouldn't be floored with the Customclass the way that, say, Mykall was when she first saw it. No, Prixati didn't assume she'd rate the ship itself but—what it was _worth?_ Yes! Leia was bright; he'd expected her to connect the _Rexi's_ splendour with Prixati's willingness to sacrifice it. He'd expected appreciation of his largesse, of this irreplaceable and unique asset freely risked in service to her cause.

Maybe she'd express her gratitude in a laugh. A look up at him, a new wonder in those sparkling eyes.

But Princess Leia left, touching almost nothing on the _Rexi_. Certainly not the way he'd so often seen her trailing her fingers along the battered plating of the _Falcon_. Sometimes giving it a pat. As though it was a living, breathing creature instead of an indefensible eyesore!

XXXXXXXXX

That evening, Han Solo came back. Well, not _back,_ he'd not yet been to Hoth, but _I came_ _back_ was the only way to describe the look on Solo's face when he appeared in the icy archway of the mess hall, leaning there for full obnoxious effect. Tired face, but eyes avidly scanning the long tables, click, click, clearly not seeing what—who—he wanted among the beings making up the third supper shift.

Prixati waved at him, snidely, before he could stop himself. Solo smiled back, bright and hard and animal. Prixati dropped his eyes. He'd never before suffered from attitude like this, but damn hell son of a bitch, it was _cold._

And Han Solo was back.

There was only one word for it: fuck!

Not spying Princess Leia in the mess, Solo left, turning on his boot with that maddening nonchalance. Prixati was grateful. He didn't want to see big brown eyes widen, pool, at the return of the smuggler. The Princess had seemed anxious, over tea—well, in truth, for the last two weeks—and Prixati didn't want to see that tenseness loosen and know missing Han Solo, fearing his loss, was the reason for it all along.

But what Prixati saw was worse than that.

After his awful dinner he went back to his ship. He was outraged to discover, in the hangar, that the _Rexi_ and the _Falcon_ were berthed next to one another. The YT probably had spacelice. Prixati stalked into his lift, was whooshed up to his bunkroom level—openly sulky now, he could admit it, and he missed his old self, his affable and easy self. Prixati missed picnics, and personal chefs, and whirlpool baths. Driving a speeder! He missed Mykell, missed his mother and father. Brothers. He didn't miss banking, but perhaps a run for mayor—

It was the sound of the Falcon's lowering ramp that woke him. After twelve, and Prixati rubbed his eyes, sat up. His bunk was lined with a bay porthole, and through a narrow slice in its sheer suns-cover which Prixati kept closed against the harsh lights of the hangar, he saw two figures.

Han Solo was the one elevated this time, at the high end of the ramp. He stood as though waiting, as Princess Leia once had for him; his face expectant, hopeful, open in a way Prixati could not have imagined. He did not wear his blaster; he wore frayed sleep-trousers and the ugliest shirt Prixati Rell had ever seen! Tight and lurid yellow, and what _was_ that faded creature screen-printed between Solo's stupid pectorals? A Wasskah vulture?

Whether heroes' trappings, medal and bloods, or malformed bird-shirt and shabby trousers, it didn't matter: his female visitor's voice was filled with warmth. Light. A glow in her perfect, pearly face, tinted pink and tilted up at Han Solo from the base of the ramp.

Past midnight, and Leia Organa was leaving the _Millennium Falcon_.

Han Solo was at such a height difference from the tiny Princess that he would have had to bend near in two, this time, to steal that kiss, the one Prixati had conjured, resented, back in his old home. He'd have to fold at the torso, the way he did the day he slipped on the scaffold, half-naked and dangling, making her laugh. Laughing back.

But tonight the pair were not laughing; they were looking, fixed, at one another. Solo said something—Prixati could not make out the words, just the low rumble of his voice. The sweet alto of hers in response, and in the middle of it, Han reached to tuck an auburn lock behind Leia's ear.

She stopped speaking.

This was it! The worst smashing of rules yet. Her sacred hair. And Han Solo touched it. Touched Princess Leia's hair with his oil-stained _Estok_ fingers, a familiarity that made Prixati fairly gasp, lean forward with relish.

Leia did not rebuke him. There was no maidenly blush, even as Han's knuckles curved toward her cheek. She did not retreat, in fact she leaned forward, up on her white-kid toes and _forward,_ Leia Organa a much more forward woman than Prixati had expected. She looked up at Han Solo with parted lips and such—fire in her eyes, searching fire. Touched her gaze to his like a match and his own eyes went up in it, those strange tiger's eyes, up with his own heat. Han leaned, swift and neat; he _would_ kiss her, in that instant, and what was this—no, what?! she, the wee grieving Princess, clad always so appropriately in white, looked ready to grab him by his dumb yellow collar and—

If that useful gold droid hadn't come along then, just in time, Han Solo would have kissed her. Kissed _her!_ Pressed that sly, insolent mouth to the perfect ruby lips of the Holy Princess. Tasting her worth. Easing her grief.

Forget her laugh. Prixati Rell wanted _that._


	2. Leia Organa

Curling onto her side, Leia Organa pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Forcing herself away from the compulsion she had never given into: how many versions of her family, her home, lived on? Out there, beaming among the intact planets, preserved in cables of light. A past Leia could access at any time: right now, in fact, she could sit up in this frigid dark, power her datapad, and find—

When Leia felt this urge back on Yavin IV (especially after the wildly successful mission she had privately titled, with wry, riotous joy, _Operation Bet Your Ass I Did,_ as in: _Eliminate a High-Level Empire Operative; Recover an Invaluable Trove of Enemy Data; Kiss that Cocky Flyboy_ ), there was a sure way to resist. She'd slip out of her camp cot, find with her toes the simple Alliance-issue sandals that didn't fit her, and flit through the humid jungle hangar to distraction.

Like the creature on his absurd, perfect ( _chest_ ) shirt that Leia perceived as an owl, Han Solo was a night bird. Awake, alert, whenever she arrived in the hangar. Working on his ship or cooking, early in the evening; later, shower-damp hair waving at his ears, tinkering with some part or other. Leg up on the dejarik table, watching the datapad propped against his own bare ankle. It intrigued Leia to discover how much Han taught himself from instructional holos: hyperdrive specs; astrophysics; biographies of legendary starpilots. Strategic analysis of famous space battles. Leia took it as a mark of blooming trust that Han no longer hastily swatted the power button when she came over, cancelling the evidence of his restless intelligence.

Of course, there was also his soap opera.

How Han had choked on his spiceloaf sandwich when Leia appeared in time to catch a steamy clinch set to swelling strings. _It was just on!_ Han spluttered even as the actors hurled impassioned Corellian at one another. Chewie passed by then, innocently asking if that roguish cardsharp had finally won over the brave undercover heroine. _I...won't...know who you mean,_ Han said, neck flaming like a plummeting starship. _Ever._

That soap-opera night, Leia now remembered, was the first time she'd slept in Han's cabin. Past eleven, perched next to Han on the curved couch, stealing his sandwich and fried tubers (becoming equally absorbed in the thrilling romance serial _Hazard the Stars_ ), Leia began a luxurious yawning that she couldn't summon, not tonight in her cold quarters. And Han, with his funny mixture of diffidence and bluster, offered her the small bunk that pulled out from under his own. _Won't fit anyone else, Princess,_ he said, rubbing the back of his shaggy head. Peering between her and the tiny mattress almost suspiciously, as though Leia had sneaked aboard and installed it before they'd met. But something humble there too, hopeful, around his mouth.

Whatever Han's ultimate motivations, Leia knew, as ever, her own mind. And this little bed had made her eyes water, so fatigued was she to see it, and so suddenly. So right it was for her; how kind and peculiar his gesture. How able she was, at last, to rest.

Han let Leia go to bed first. Gruffly, he said he had work, but she understood he was giving her space to sleep without any question about sexual intent. When Han did appear, two hours later, Leia woke to find him awkwardly making his way around her trundle in faint blue light. Stubbing a bare toe on his locker—stumbling, starting that indignant squawk of _fucker!_ with which Han treated all physical accidents and then, thinking Leia was still asleep, biting his lower lip to stop it. Instead shooting his foot the Corellian middle finger, making Leia muffle her laughter. Han looked down in surprise, then laughed too as he sprawled gracelessly onto his own bunk.

 _G'night_ , Han said in casual Basic. But later he murmured the _Olys_ he'd pressed to her forehead in that honeymoon bed in Coronet. Of course Leia had sourced the phrase, what it meant: _Sleep now, Sweetheart._ Was it an order Han gave her, permission, plea? Leia didn't care, but something about the ambiguous combination in velvet native tongue made her want to crawl into bed with him. Wide awake to her own wanting.

Leia turned in her bulky thermosack. Like the sandals, issued to larger standard, the cover didn't fasten at her neck but only over her head, leaving Leia with the nightly choice to either suffocate or freeze. Tonight she chose to freeze, longing for his—her— _the_ green blanket. But it was gone, on the _Falcon_.

Two days before the Alliance evacuation Han was issued an offer directly from Jan Dodonna, like an errand boy run to the shops. An exhaustive supply run, ambitious and risky even for experienced smugglers, bouncing between planets and systems. Leia was there when the communication came in, with a harsh buzz that rattled Han's datapad off the cockpit console. Not that it bothered Han when the device, battered and taped—he'd seen Han _woundglue_ it, Luke insisted—hit the deckplates. He refused to get it a protective cover. If he did, Han said with the dry fatalism Leia now recognized as quintessentially _Estok_ , _that_ was when the thing would shatter.

Han's lips tugged up at the corner when he said it. But in his eyes, green on hers, Leia glimpsed his meaning. What he had gleaned about living, from a past she could only imagine after their trip to East Coronet: Han believed that the instant he proved to the universe he valued something, he would lose it.

So he whacked the _Falcon_ with hydrospanners. Called Chewie _furball_ , Luke _kid_ and _junior._

 _Your Worship. Your Highnessness._

Maybe this was why Han hadn't tried to kiss her again after Coronet, Leia wondered now, remembering him thumb the datapad on. Remembering the way that thumb sketched her cheekbone, coarse and hard as his lips were full and soft. The way his tongue—

Rolling to her back, Leia studied the ice ceiling, dull gleam in the dark. Its chilled breath tormenting her long neck. She could have had it, the exquisite wrap. Han had tried, when she came aboard the _Falcon_ just before he left, to give it to her.

 _You'll need this on Hoth, Princ_ —Han began, moving to twine her in silken net as she stood at the mouth of the ring corridor. And something about Han's forced cheer made Leia furious and sad at once—what had she expected, from this farewell? Was she angry at her own failure? She'd refused Han's offer of a quick drink or even a seat; let his halting conversation wilt in the castoff jungle heat. Until they just...stood, near the couch where, over the last year-and-month, they'd eaten, argued _and_ fought, sat close at thighs. Slept, gambled, drank, laughed so hard she wept and he planted a huge hand over his face. Planned strategy and tactics; checked, cleaned and compared weaponry; debated the next developments on their soap. Sat working in companionable, understanding silence. Not like _that_ quiet, emphasized by the _Falcon_ chirping its pre-flight checks.

Finally Leia had broken it with a stiff goodbye, her eyes cast low, on Han's thumbs hooked in his belt. The casualness he obviously felt! When _she_ had this smooth buoy in her throat, bobbing on the surface of all she wanted to say.

Or do—

And then Han moved. Snagging the blanket from the couch, speaking brightly about Hoth. Leia's chin jerked up. When he leaned in she shoved the delicate weave back into his chest and Han froze, smile collapsing into visible hurt. But just as swiftly, understanding.

 _Hey._ Han said it so softly, ducking his head close to Leia's though no one was nearby. Luke had already said his easy goodbye, fixing a playful flimsiplast order for blue milk ( _and kyber crystals, if you see any pls_ ) to the chiller. Chewie in the cockpit, submitting the clearance manifest to the tower. _Leia. I—_

Leia watched Han's throat, then, not his hands. Watched it work, the angled apple; perhaps he had his own marker of rising emotion. Lifting her eyes to his, Leia caught her breath. Han looked down at her as though over a dizzying precipice. For an eternal moment, they stared, and Leia felt again the pull toward him, rushing and magnetic as...a Coroneti train.

It was Leia who retreated from the edge, and the reason was Han's acceptance of Dodonna's job. She'd assumed he was making the trip to Hoth alongside _(her)_ everyone else—the exodus had dangers all its own, of course, but that sudden supply run...many of the destinations were occupied, and the routes between patrolled by Destroyers, TIES. Sufficient provisions were essential, though, especially since the Rebels would no longer be able to cultivate fruits and vegetables. So High Command was, as the saying went, over a barrel. Which was how any good mercenary liked negotiations.

Leia didn't know what Command had offered Han—after the success of her first mission, now just a month past, she was transferred from quartermaster's duties—but _urgency_ always meant _expensive_. Needs, wants, hadn't she heard Han gleefully pricing them often enough? Han hadn't asked Leia what she thought of this run, or what she'd been counting on from him. He just scanned Dodonna's list and when she asked, _Are you going to take it?_ Han said, _Sure._ A boast there, you'd have to know Han Solo like Leia did to hear it. Be there to see just the way he leaned back in his captain's seat, flashing teeth at her; gentle arch of back, splaying his knees. What did he want, praise, appreciation? Han looked then, he really looked, as though he could pat his lap, bid her sit, kiss his triumph, his takings, into her neck.

It was almost obscene. Leia wished she could stop replaying it when trying to sleep.

 _Money._ Han and money. After Coronet Leia thought he was past it, because how else— _how_ could he have seized her, hurled her to safety, tossed the Empire his own life as carelessly as a credit to a barkeep? How could Han do that, then relish the fleecing of—no, worse, he wished to share this pleasure with Leia, forgetting that she was the Rebellion's shepherd and not its wolf.

Sometimes Leia wondered: was it Han out to enlist _her?_

But could Leia blame Han, after seeing where he came from? She was aware, yes, _yes,_ she had been raised in lavishness by any standards. Though never, on progressive Alderaan, while citizens suffered. Yet if she could, Leia would cash it all in; she would make a retroactive pact with the fates to take every comfort from her life—past, present, future—to win. To topple the Empire.

Leia had a debt to her people, and to those beings still enslaved. Exploited. Occupied. Murdered. Raped. Billions of lives lost and threatened; one chance, _one_ chance to free them. Han had only one life to concern him; this was a luxury all its own. And so, that last night on the _Falcon_ , money opened an unbroachable gulf between Leia and Han, tearing open their year's worth of tentative yet tensile bonding. Money, stranding them on respective ledges of privilege and desperation.

Jerkily Leia retreated from her own steep drop: he was sex, and he was money. She planted a foot, in its loose workboot—she was due to help Luke tune his X-wing for the lift to Hoth; she suspected he'd asked as kind distraction from Han's leaving—into the corridor. Han's face went smooth and opaque as Mustafaran lava rock. He straightened, crossed his arms across his chest. Rocked back on his heels in that way he'd had from the first day, leading with his hips, putting them before his heart.

 _Take it easy, Princess._ That damned smirk! So smug about his own detachment. _Just runnin' to the shops._

Take it easy! The subtext almost a chiding: like me. Leia felt her lips press hard and tight as they had ever been tender, with Han Solo. Unguarded in talk, sleep, laughter. Kiss.

 _Indeed._ Leia said it crisply, turning her back. Striding down the padded corridor toward the ramp, both relieved and furious that she hadn't been able to speak to Han, hadn't revealed the development of this...sweet, heated _heaviness_ in her, for him. Han followed at her heels. _Wouldja wait a—_ Leia sped up. Tossed the phrase over her shoulder in cool Basic, as she would to any departing pilot. Just words, worth nothing. Not fears, dreams, hopes. Want. Not history, and surely not promise. Anonymous, no especial wish: _Spacer's best._

Muttering a curse, Han slapped the button to seal the hatch behind Leia so fast the hydraulic hissing felt acidic. Then the ramp, grinding up and within minutes, Leia was watching the blue bar of the _Falcon_ in departure. Green blanket with it.

And now the _Falcon_ was late to Hoth, that was fact. Officially filed and noted. Two weeks had passed, Echo Base mostly established. Even allowing for that multiplanet scavenger hunt, often taking them out of communication range, the experienced pair of smugglers could have, should have, been back by now.

Not that Leia had worked out the astromath.

Were Han and Chewie all right? Despite whispers around base of footloose abandonment, Leia knew Han would not leave her, even if loyal Chewie wouldn't have ripped off his arms for it. Not like...that, anyway. Not abruptly, not off their almost-fight. Han wouldn't vanish from her life, not after everything, not when he knew all Leia had already—

 _Sex and money. Get it through your head._

But Leia saw that gentling of Han's face again and admitted he was right in his perception. To a point. She _had_ felt, part of her did, that his giving her the blanket meant she'd never see him again. Han could not know, though, the finer print beneath her boldface fear; the subcategories of loss in which Leia Organa was now a specialist. Leia dreaded stumbling on all she treasured about Han in his absence. The large things were already well-known to her—bravery, wit; deep, savvy intelligence; stealthy kindness; oh, all right: beauty, sexiness!—but she knew, now, that the modest memories were what ambushed. Maimed. Like suddenly seeing in sunned leaves, days after the Death Star in a Yavin clearing, just the way light came through the tinted windows of her Aldera bedroom. The cushioned bay seat where she read with her pitten. Felling Leia to her knees in moss and bracken, the full force of knowing brought in on the vision: light, home, occupants, pets, gone forever. It was irrevocable. Home was _over._

 _Enough._ Leia yanked stiff mylarweave over her head. She must sleep; she would need all her patience for her appointment on another ship tomorrow morning. The _Fortunas Rexi_ , sitting smugly next to the empty berth Leia had quietly requisitioned for the _Falcon._

If Han never came back, Leia thought, closing her eyes against the notion she hadn't allowed herself to face by day, she would miss the delicious bedtime voice. That offended yelp when he barked his toe. The way she pleasantly woke, on and off, to the safety of Han breathing deep and slow in his own bunk, just above her, to her right. Edged in light, mouth gently agape, one arm flung above his rumpled head. Leia would miss the wanting, the wondering, the anticipation; the ache to get close enough to draw from Han all his commands, consents, supplications.

And that was the inventory of just one night.

Leia squeezed her lids tighter, the stinging pressure behind them a penitent offer to the universe. Need, not want. Let herself sigh it aloud for him where she couldn't for home, what she couldn't say before Han left, standing before him on the _Falcon's_ decks. What Han couldn't call after her, either, as she strode down the ramp.

 _Please come back_.

XXXXXXXXX

Prixati Rell was Corellian. This was not a detail a sophisticated diplomat forgot, yet Leia kept being surprised by it. He was so unlike Wedge and Han, who themselves were markedly different men yet shared a certain cultural shorthand. Indefinable, but there in the way Wedge automatically handed Han spiced ale from the many bottles of many worlds cobbled together by the Rogues. The way Han lent Wedge a CEC-issue wrench when most who asked got only mass-produced. And sometimes, in the last days on Yavin, just after their return from Coronet, Leia noticed Han speaking a couple words, with Wedge, in their shared language. A subtle shift, and different accents—but again, there.

 _Not_ there, with Prixati Rell. Wedge spoke affably enough with the recent recruit, but only in Basic, and with a kind of restraint. Han? It wasn't accurate to say Han avoided Prixati—Han would not change his own flight plan, once decided on, for just anyone—it was more, Leia thought, that he deleted him upon arrival. Han could do that, coolly remove unwanted beings from his worldsview. _Another luxury, that,_ Leia sardonically thought as she endured Prixati's tour of the _Fortunas Rexi._ Maintaining Command outreach to enlistees was part of her personal mandate.

She wasn't sure quite why Han had taken intense dislike to Prixati Rell (Luke simply smiled enigmatically when she asked in a way that didn't betray too much interest). Class was large part of it, and Leia could understand that, after close-up view of the Coroneti gulf between poor and rich. It angered her too; it piqued now as Rell trailed his fingers over Selonian marble counters, not crass enough to speak expense, but illustrating it with his touch. All Leia could see, in the luster, was a gangly, lonely, hungry _Estok_ boy in too-short trousers.

Yet Han did not resent _her_ upbringing. Leia could feel he didn't. He marvelled at it, sometimes, yes, but that broke no rules, so did Luke _._ So did she! They all liked to hear about Chewie's tree house on Kashyyyk, too, or Luke and his endless womp-rat battles. Han's stories were all dated A.B.: After Bloodstripes.

What had Han said, in their shared hotel bed? _People come up how they come up._ Leia had the feeling Han would not mind, so much, a rich Coroneti who had truly defected from his wealth. Embraced the cause, though Han Solo judging _that_ was a laugh.

It wasn't that Prixati was lazy. He volunteered for all manner of projects Leia was also on. He was decent at hand-to-hand combat, a good shot, a competent mechanic and pilot, quick with numbers in the briefings. But he seemed a visitor on Yavin, a supervisor even, engaging in the Rebellion as though it were a favor. He wore his class like a speeder feature, factored into his overall value. A bemused tolerance of Rebel privations: jungle weather, hard manual labor. Here on Hoth, though, Rell's attitude was curdling, Leia sensed: the novelty blowing off in savage windchill, flaking away in powdered rations.

 _Dilettante._ That was the word, Leia heard it in her mother's gleeful voice, solving one of her crosswords puzzles. And that: the sense of _hobby,_ where both Han and Leia saw only survival, for their own sometimes clashing reasons, was what provoked them both about Prixati Rell.

But Rell had enlisted, whatever his motives, and so he was Leia's responsibility to retain. He _was_ also Corellian, that was fact. And so when in his glossy galley Prixati offered Corellian Breakfast tea, Leia didn't bother to prepare her tastebuds the way she used to before countless formal dinners, to avoid betraying dislike of a spice or flavor. She knew she liked the brew: Wedge had first hooked Leia on it, and Han, despite vocal hatred of _plantwater,_ immediately stocked it on the _Falcon_ then acted like it had always been there _._

Leia almost pulled a face with her first sip. No, she did; she couldn't help it, the minute twist of her lips. She liked Wedge's tea very much, slightly creamy, slightly sweetened. And Leia _loved_ Han's, he made it for her the way he made kaffe: brawny, scalding, black. Just right. Prixati Rell's version was viscous with honey, and only just-heated. Leia wasn't spoiled, yet she discovered that having taste set for one thing and receiving another provoked a childish but irresistible disappointment _._ Also, more personally, a missing of Han, all over again. One of those facets of him, lying in wait.

Of course Prixati noticed her reaction, brief though it was. He noticed everything about her, it seemed; his scrutiny made Leia jumpy, though she'd been galactically famous before she was conscious of her own name. Always compliments, then those expectant eyes, like he'd presented her with a costly trinket. Not for the first time, Prixati reminded Leia of petulant princes, and so she gave him the smile she gave them, fortified with courtesy. Cordiality. Distance.

"Have you... _tried_ Corellian Breakfast tea, Your Highness?"

"I have."

Prixati waited, amused skepticism in his face.

"Perhaps I had a different brand." Leia said, calling on her training in tactfulness and tolerance. "Wedge and Han—"

"Allow me to guess. Builder's tea," Prixati winced and smiled at once, as though at the clumsy antics of children. "So strong you could stand a spoon up in it?"

"I enjoy—"

"Actually." Prixati began, and Leia nearly winced herself. Was this the way of all condescension? Not even found in the word, _actually,_ but the speed with which certain beings seized it _._ The way they made of opinion a terminal statement. "Even most Corellians do not know this, and while I am sure you have sampled the custom of more worlds than I can imagine," Prixati observed an interval of measured respect, "preparing tea is an art, requiring objective methods."

Leia restrained her own flat declaration: _art_ and _objective methods_ were not congruent on any planet.

" _I_ have followed the correct method: loose leaves. Never bags. Vashkan honey. Water warmed, not boiled. And not too hot!" He swallowed with holoadvert appreciation from his bone-fine cup. " _Estok_ will set one's mouth afire."

Leia nearly choked on her polite second sip. _You have no idea._ She found herself conjuring it in the twining wisps of steam from Rell's ceramisteel teapot: the train. Han alive, whole, unshot; he came back, when she'd seen him lost and there had been only one way to express it, the overwhelming joy, relief. Need, want. In high-speed, deep, urgent kiss.

 _And hot. Hot, yes._

"You seem galaxies away, Princess."

No. Not this address, in Prixati Rell's voice. "Please. Call me Leia."

Acutely schooled in interaction, Leia caught Prixati's own responsive flicker at her distraction—or her correction in title: peevishness. It was the same look she glimpsed in the hand-etched 'fresher mirror when he'd shown her around the Customclass. She'd failed, obviously, to live up to some expectation, to be impressed. To, herself, adequately reflect.

Leia set her jaw. She had seen this before, so many times. It was her fame that did it, that made others grovel. And the grovelling entitled them to something of her, caused this troubling mixture of drive to please and possess when they met her. Then the inevitable resentment when Leia couldn't, _wouldn't_ give it, the piece of herself that they wanted.

And something more, often, when the seeker was male.

Suddenly Leia wanted to plant her elbows on flawless marble like she did on a scratched dejarik table, leaning in with pure sabacc. Han's face blank but his green eyes dancing, delighted when she won, and now she won often. Yes, she wanted to call on Rell: what would he have Leia do? Fall to this polished larron-wood and weep? Did he think he was restoring it, what a Princess missed: lifestyle, refinement? Did he think _this_ was what she had lost, what had been torn from her heart, what she mourned? When Leia was weighing what it all converted to, in the only market that mattered. Food. Bacta. Heaters. Blasters. _Time._

"Forgive me," Prixati confided, then. A pause masquerading as hesitance, and Leia almost snorted. This was the disclaimer that exempted rudeness from consequence. "You look lovely, as always—"

 _What a fucking relief._

"But—again, if you'll permit me—"

With a droll arch of eyebrow, Leia inclined her hand.

"So tired. Exhausted! Rather too..." Prixati's pale blue eyes crawled her cheekbones. "Pallid, and—"

Leia saw Han again. Han on the Death Star; when, in her most regal, senatorial _and_ military tones, she'd ordered him to do what he was told, he gaped in outrage, not abasement. He thought _she_ should know who _he_ was. Han in the _Falcon's_ cockpit after their escape, radiant with self-satisfaction. Stripping off his gloves with the languor that Leia immediately pegged as contrived. Flirting in terrible, awkward fashion, so handsome everyone let him believe himself suave. Spending a year sallying into debate, banter, fights with Leia at a moment's notice. He went too far, sometimes. He'd said things that hurt. Han could put a sneer in _Princess,_ he could be reckless with his tongue as he was with his blaster in the trash compactor.

But never competing _this_ way, with Leia, mean and cheap. Even when Leia cut Han just as deep, and knew it. Never sought to seed doubts, in a female head, about attractiveness. Condemnation sheathed in concern, it fit the rules of engagement for duels between men and women. As though that was all Leia cared for, any women could care for, the vulnerability at the core of all female existence. _Will I please him, does he want me, do I please his eyes?_

"Would you accept an omelet? I have gizka eggs, chives—"

 _I'd rather accept another probe droid in my spinal column._

"No." Leia allowed herself the rare luxury of curtness. If Prixati Rell thought he was afforded critique of her body in turn for his service, if he wanted her to sit here admiring his largesse, he was welcome to desert. There would be no more effort from her. Cutting her eyes to the seastone chrono on the silkflimsied wall, Leia rose. A mercenary herself, when you pushed her. "I thank you for the tea."

"Oh, I meant no offense." Prixati stood too, startled, dismayed. "Please. I fear I've caused you harm—"

"Not at all, Captain Rell," Leia said. Her smile was severance. "You could never."

XXXXXXXXX

It was an interminable day, after that. Leia spent it preparing for the next morning's breakfast briefing. Not really a briefing—it was an informal meeting with refreshments, open to all Rebels, to be held in the recently hacked-out-of-a-cavern conference chamber. A High Command initiative to boost morale, frankly sagging since the move to Hoth. Leia had suggested alternatives—early morning was not the best time for positivity; though many delayed transports had come in while she was aboard the _Rexi_ , (not the one she wanted, not that she was checking) food was not in sufficient supply to lay on a spread. Privately, Leia felt commissioning the Rogues to build a still from spare parts and ferment...permafrost was the best cure for flagging spirits.

 _Breakfast Briefing._ She'd been at it for hours and now, ten at night—she'd just missed the third dinner shift she'd meant to catch—she trudged the large space, back and forth, setting up chairs and tables, electronics. A little delirious with fatigue and hunger, Leia kept thinking it in jaunty holocaster tones. _Breaaakfast Briefing._ It sounded like the title for one of those Coruscant pre-dawn shows, beaming automatically into her senatorial apartment as Leia blearily sipped her kaffe, bound her hair. The strangest mix of pep and nihilism: _Welcome to Breakfast Briefing! Is your air filtration system trying to kill you?_

Countless mornings Leia almost muttered it through the pins in her teeth, the rumored blueprint: _Have you heard of the Death Star?_ But Leia Organa was no fool. She never found any bugs, but she never spoke secrets in that apartment.

She'd hoped to see Luke, here, setting up, but he'd clearly been assigned somewhere else. She missed his easy company; they'd become so close, understanding, humor, support, empathy fluent and quick between them. Telepathic, almost. The uncanny sense that she'd known him all her life, this farmboy from Tattooine who was never so green as he liked to seem. Different, so different than Han or...Han-and-her.

 _What? I can say that,_ Leia cut in on herself, on her knees, wrestling a starkraken made of cords. _Han-and-I. It doesn't mean—there's me-and-Chewie, too. And I was just thinking about me-and-Luke—_

 _Yes,_ the wire tentacles whispered back, waving around her face with the force of her effort. _And you spend just as much time picturing the no times you kissed them._

Leia scowled. The cords were staying in their knot just to defy her. No one could undo snarls of wire like Han. Those long, strong, clever fingers just—

 _What was that?_ The cord-knot chuckled. _Clever fingers? Remind me—where else have you pictured those? And when?_

"Fuck off, knot," Leia hissed, her face growing hot.

"Pardon me?" Wedge Antilles bent over her, pressing his hand to his chest. "A Corellian obscenity, Your Highness? I'm frankly shocked."

"Fuck off, Antilles," Leia said smartly back, and Wedge laughed as he swapped her datapad, neglected across the room, for the mouthy knot.

"I'll take over here. Just coming on-shift, and you were off two hours ago." Wedge shrugged, inclined the datapad in her hands. "Anyway. Hear you're wanted elsewhere."

Leia creased her brow in confusion. Glancing at her screen, she missed the smile Wedge tucked into his insulated collar. She felt all the breath, held for weeks, swell her chest when she read the message buzzing and rattling from her fingers. Fingers squeezed her heart. Painful, ecstatic, cold and hot at once.

No picture, just typical blunt text.

 _Hey Princess. I'm back._

She was off, trying not to run, so fast she missed something else: Wedge Antilles observing as he murdered the knot, "Eh, it's probably _nyiad_ , too."


	3. Chewbacca

Scowling, Han Solo leaned across the table, right cheek stuffed with nerfburger. He chewed, and chewed still more, and...more, incredulity joining the indignation in his face. Again Chewbacca was pleased with his own pointed teeth. Much more efficient for overcooked meat.

Finally, with difficulty, Han swallowed. "...didja say...?"

 _You heard me._

"Sure I _heard_ you, you gargling plandl horn. Don't mean I—"

 _You understand me very well._

Han rolled his eyes at the beamed ceiling. The Wyrwulf and Whistle wasn't their usual cantina stop. The pub, though clearly struggling—Han and Chewie the only table—was shabby, but clean. Music on the jukebox, no cigarras, water pipes or cards allowed. Teenaged Mirialan server, trembling with excitement or terror at actual customers, tripping over his second-hand shoes. Burly humanoid owner behind the bar, watching smashball on the big-screen holo.

Nice enough place, Chewie decided. About to go bust, and suboptimal food (turned out the baby-faced waiter doubled as cook), but fugitive smugglers couldn't be fussy.

Inkkat was an impulsive last stop, not on the Alliance manifest. They were already late to Hoth. Just a couple of days, just the usual complications: delayed shipment drops from Rebel agents; that customs hassle on Folordis. Minor hyperdrive glitch in the Kiffu sector. The biggest delay, on a run of this length, was the wide navigational berth they now had to give Hutt Space.

But Inkkat was a planet where Han claimed good luck. It was a retail world—tame, Han said, one big mall, some Empire presence but nothing heavy. And, as always, Han knew a guy: this time, a Codru-Ji with a gambling problem, who put his four arms to use stocking shelves at a multiplaza.

They landed in an open shiplot abutting the massive mall. Chewie guarded the _Falcon_ as Han headed for the loading docks. He was gone over an hour. Chewie was about to exercise his life debt when he spotted a familiar lanky figure strolling across the lot, steering overstacked hover-pallets casually as other shoppers pushed glidecarts. Chewie grinned. Some sabacc debt collected, no doubt.

 _Let's hit it,_ Han had said after they loaded the crates. Bounding halfway up the ramp in one leap, cracking his knuckles. _Thinkin'_ _we can make Hoth by—_

Chewie planted his tough soles on the tarmac. It was suppertime! Wookies were bound by honor, but also by terrific hunger; massive power required serious caloric intake. Chewie couldn't subsist entirely on ration bars, and they'd have to be stricter with their stores now that they were on their way to, according to the last destination entry in the _Falcon_ 's datalog, _the frozen ass-end of the fuck-all sector._

But Han hadn't actually been to the white wastes of Hoth. Chewie had scouted the bleak ice planet with Luke. There was no way Chewie was taking chances with his fur coat thinning from malnutrition. Or his insulation layer depleting. His muscles atrophying, his claws getting brittle—there were Wampas on Hoth to potentially fight off, gods knew what else. Han had found time to run _his_ errands. So Chewie bellowed his terms: he was not moving from this lot unless it was toward at least two nerfsteaks, a few baked tubers. A pitcher of Ukian stout, thick with malt, hops, yeast. Beebleberry Ripple ice cream after.

 _But L—_ Han blurted, a strange, soft urgency lighting his eyes.

At this Chewie tilted his head: _Go on._ He was willing to starve, some, if it meant his lonely, prickly friend finally speaking his obvious heart.

But Han recovered arrogant posture. Hands on hips, shoulders thrown back, he became The! Captain! at the top of his ramp. _Leave the_ Falcon _in a public lot? Late? All loaded up? You_ loopy, _Chewie?_ _What are we, goddamn_ bush-lea _—_

 _Are you using this many L's on purpose?_ Chewie interjected. _Because_ _I can think of—_

 _Fine, shut up! fine!_ Han barreled down the incline. _Shut up!_

The Wyrwulf was across the lot from the mall, its broad windows affording clear view of the _Falcon._ And the complete lack of other patrons should appeal to the survivalist, the hired man _and_ the grouch in Han, yet he clearly resented the detour, surprising Chewie not one bit. Because Han wasn't concerned for his ship—the _Falcon_ was vehemently shielded as her master—or about timely job completion, or even about his safety, lately.

Han was bent on reunion.

Knitting his paws over his belly, Chewie ran down the invisible timer until his captain gave in to impatience. Three seconds later, Han shoved away his barely-touched food and planted his elbow on the placemat, as though challenging Chewie to arm-wrestle. Only his left elbow on the table—even here Han's right hand stayed under: on his thigh, at his holster, just as his back held to the wall.

"You think I gotta be, what?...wrapped?" Han hissed.

Chewie stroked the fur at his jaw. Han's stab at translation, though not precise, was fairly conceptually sophisticated. But then, he'd always known Han to be a quick study. Look how rapidly he'd solved that code-locked collar around Chewie's neck. Cursing all the while in his Academy-forbidden Corellian dialect. That burning, personal lifetime war merely one of many qualities that made Han Solo the natural consort of a certain Princess.

Speaking of whom.

 _Wrapped..._ Chewie mused. _Close. Almost, yes._

"Like a vase!" Han said brightly. "Or a wound?"

 _Or a babe._

"A. Babe."

 _Do not take that personally. I am over two hundr—_

But Han's eyes had flicked to the young waiter, green brow damp—Chewie's nostrils reported fear—as he seated a male/female human couple at the bar. The pair weren't in uniform, yet they retained that loathsome _look_ : sterile, manufactured. Briskly sadistic. The pair spoke with the owner as he hurriedly stood, unasked, to pour them cocktails.

The woman counted the mounded credits he pushed across the bar to her.

Han's gaze returned to Chewie. His cocked eyebrow had a point, Chewie conceded: he _did_ tend to forget that Shyriiwook could be translated by those blasted Empirical data devices. This technical shortcut enraged Chewie—his language wasn't speakable by humans, but learning to decipher the guttural howls, grunts, and ululations was a challenge of character, and teaching it a labor of respect (and, in the case of the Princess and Luke, also of affection). To have his ancient and noble speech solvable so soullessly was maddening.

Very well. They would keep their exchange free of specifics.

 _What I propose is nothing to be ashamed of._

"Good, okay." Han nodded at Chewie but his consciousness was squarely on the group at the bar. "How 'bout weirded the hells out?"

 _It is therapeutic. All beings need—_

"Alls I need you to _therapy,_ Doctor Fur, is speed and steel." Han sipped his cheap ale—but only sipped; in public, Han ordered alcohol only because it was more noteworthy to abstain. "Took you on as co-pilot, not head-med."

Took him on! Is that what Han told himself? Chuckling, Chewie hoisted his own tankard. _I cannot wrap you._

"Against my rules, too, buddy," Han snapped. "So that's convenient,"

 _It is not a matter of_ rules _. It is a matter of...special affinity._ Chewie took a rolling gulp of stout. _On my homeworld it is done by..._

Han's eyelids lowered. "Don't need a mother neither."

 _This is not my meaning. Your infancy is past._ Chewie waved an arm, swaying with pennants of hair. _There is a question at the heart of this truth—_

"Oh here we go," Han muttered.

— _that, should you have the mettle to answer it honestly, will reveal to you—_

Han stiffened. The Imps at the bar were staring over.

Instantly Han adopted a reliable gloss. The clever expression thickened, broad shoulders sagged; he drew his sleeve of beer jealously close. So convincing was his best friend's vacancy that witnessing it left Chewie half-grieved, half-marvelling. It was like Han was a vibroblade, kept honed keen as envy, then struck against stone until it dulled, dimmed, visibly lost its threat. A Han Solo who saved no one, least of all himself.

However, Han could only physically conjure this effect. Speaking tripped him up, despite his inexplicable belief in his own glibness. So it was wise that Han held his tongue as the female Imp studied him. Chewie felt her scrutiny pass over his own features, felt again the wind on Hoth. Did she recognize the wanted pair? Chewie hadn't seen any flimsi Rebel wanted posters on Inkkat, but they were widely viewable on the holonet.

With a wintry smile, the Imp raised her tumbler to Han in smooth toast. Han tipped his pint in response, lip curled in what could be a grin. Only Chewie close enough to read the contempt. An endless moment passed, then the Imp dismissed them from her interest, resuming conversation with her companion and the bartender.

By silent mutual agreement, the two stayed put, Chewie finishing his stout, Han idly watching smashball, nursing his ale. Finally Han gestured for the waiter, who scuttled over.

"Dessert?" the boy croaked. It was hard to tell if the prospect heartened or terrified him.

Yes, Chewie nodded, he _would_ like dessert, thank you very much. He gestured at the blackboard of specials. He would have the Choco Mustafar Cake with Beebleberry Ripple Ice Cream, plea—

"No." Han said curtly.

 _To hell with the oppressors! I do not fear them._ Chewie shook his fist. _By my Honored Forebears, I will have_ all the cake—

"Forget. It." Han bit out through a bright grin, stabbing a wrist with the opposing index, as though at an archaic chrono.

The boy looked between the bickering shipmates, traditional markings on his cheeks darkening against his leafy complexion. Mirialans were deeply empathetic beings, Chewie knew, sensitive to the point of suffering. Something of the Force, to them. And this Mir was, now that Chewie looked closely, barely an adolescent! Skinny, he swayed on his feet. The shadows under his eyes were evergreen.

The youngling's gaze fell on Han's laden, abandoned plate.

"Was your meal...okay?" He hesitantly asked this of Chewie, apparently feeling safer with a gigantic, fanged, armed Wookie than the lean green-eyed man opposite.

Honesty was a powerful tenet on Kashyyyk. But Chewie was on Inkkat this evening, so he bent the rules by giving a toothy grin and thumbs-up. Han, though, made no attempt to explain or excuse his uneaten food. He did not like it, so he did not eat it; that was that, the facts were self-evident and hurt feelings? Irrelevant.

But as he stood, tossing credits to the table, Han flipped an extra chip to the boy. Han generally tipped, but this token surprised Chewie with its healthy worth. The boy so stunned himself that he fumbled the chip.

"Igvor! Zepytt." The boss swore from the bar. "Can you do anythingright?"

Igvor, scrabbling on hands and knees, searched for the chip. The Imps swivelled on their barstools, attracted, like blood-crows, by the child's desperation. Han glanced at Chewie, something dianoga-ugly rippling the surface of his expression. But the reaction was quickly subsumed; Han hitched his belt and slouched for the door, the picture of day-drunk.

Chewie stayed seated.

"Don't know why I feed him,"the boss genially confided. "Igvor! Helssu, it's under the juke. The _juke,_ you idi—"

The Imps snickered at what was obviously frequent entertainment. Han's trigger finger visibly twitched, but the cruel sport didn't stop his lazy walk. And Han didn't stop when Igvor, with a whimper of gratitude, thin arm pinched under the jukebox, closed his fingers on the chip.

Crossing his furry ankles, Chewie drained his stout, then Han's abandoned ale.

Chortling, the boss held out his palm. "Iggy. Nymnit!" The boy cringed, but hesitated. His boss barked, all joviality dropped: " _Nymnit._ "

"Don't be cheap, Bafti," the female Imp mock-scolded, still gloating over her bribe.

Igvor gulped convulsively. Crouching, he curled around the chip, clutched it to his narrow chest. Like it was an infant, Chewie thought. Or the cure for some terrible affliction.

Bafti moved from behind the bar, making hammy fists. "Give it to me, boy. Or I'll take—"

"The fuck you will." Han's turn was fast and tight, physical disguise destroyed by his deep, carrying voice.

Bafti spun too. "Keep walking _._ "

Han _did_ keep walking, but toward Bafti, as Chewie had known he would. The Mir boy blinked up with old fear and new hope.

"What's it to you, _pursl?_ " Bafti spat.

"'Bout fifteen credits," Han shot back.

 _Money._ Chewie considered. _Han and money._ He had yet to understand it, the way credits moved in Han's life, in his mind and motivation. Into his hands and through his fingers. The carrier of rage and dreams. All that money couldn't deliver Han from. All it could never bring to him.

Still Han strode forward, grey stare slitted. Bafti moved to meet him. Igvor shrank against the jukebox, and with a kind of sympathy the speakers went quiet. The boy was breathing shallowly, as though of toxic atmosphere. Chewie got, with surprising subtlety, to his feet. Han could handle himself with fists or blaster—bristled, in fact, when his protector got too overbearing—so Chewie would transfer, for the time being, the interest of his life-debt to Igvor.

"Stop!" The command came from the woman at the bar.

Bafti froze. Han ignored her.

"You there! Corellian!"

Now Han stopped.

One of Han's ironclad rules was _no real talk in the street._ But there was another facet to Han, Chewie knew, an impulsiveness given expression by his ungoverned tongue, that craved recognition. Like when, in a fateful meeting in a Tatooine cantina, Han had broken his own commandment. _You've never heard of the Millennium Falcon?_

And it was with this combative boastfulness that Han turned, drew himself to full height before the Imps. Leading with chin, telltale scar. Twist of lips, squared shoulders; brash red lines emphasizing wide-braced legs. One thumb hooked in his belt, the other resting on the butt of the DL-44. Even his hair asserted itself, boisterous gold in evening sun plummeting through the windows.

Han Solo, forever posing for his own wanted poster.

Chewie smiled his affection. It was inconvenient, yes—the pair were a lucrative plum for any bounty hunter or Imperial executive to pluck—yet also irresistible, Han's drive into _you'll never take me alive._ And: staying alive. Because, as a young recruit had once muttered under his breath, fingers quick on the shock-lock at a strange Wookie's neck: _fuck you. That's why._

The female officer snapped her fingers at Han's legs. "Where did you get those?"

"Ma'am," the male Imp ventured, "I believe the bloodstripes are awarded for uncommon coura—"

Bafti backed up from the fight he'd been so ready to have.

"Not the _stripes,_ Denik," the superior Imp said. "Any Corelli grunt can win those." She slid from her barstool to her feet. "The _pants_. They're Academy weave! Impossible to fake."

Chewie shrugged his crossbow from his own back into easy reach.

"So he's either a thief or a deserter," Denik said eagerly.

Han's eyes flared, his lips popped apart. Chewie couldn't tell if he was bemused or mortally insulted to remain unidentified after his flagrant reveal. Probably some combination.

"Impersonating an officer," the main Imp said, reaching to the small of her back, "is punishable by life impris—"

She almost got it out before the abrupt Inkkat fall of night. The windows washed stark black. Marking this delineation, _pub_ to _bar,_ a timer clicked over in the Wyrwulf's ceiling. The overhead lights vanished in a wash of red; the jukebox whirred back to life. Cracked, haunting voice, bassline coiling muscular as an Anacondan through spiky, intermittent chords.

Spooked, Denik grabbed for his belt. The DL-44 leapt, level, to the end of Han's extended arm: Chewie only just swooped down, swept Igvor up into his left arm, when Denik's hand vanished in lurid mist.

Red light. Bolts and blood.

Chewie tightened his embrace around the frail, quaking boy.

Denik peered at his stump of wrist. "Ma'am," he said. "Ma'am...?"

The other Imp made her move. Face inscrutable, Han shot out her knees, left-right, with two brief pulses of trigger. She collapsed in blanched shock, her holdout blaster spinning across the waxed floor.

"It was a court-martial," Han said pleasantly. "That whole slavery thing you types get off on so—"

The Imp grasped for her device, to call for medical help, for backup. Han got to the comm first, crushed it under his heel.

Igvor keened.

"Give me the boy." Crouching behind a table, Bafti shouted it at Chewie. "He's a Mir, he can't see all this!"

Igvor clung tighter, bent his neck to shelter deeper at his protector's shoulder. And Chewie saw the gradient marks, purple as smoke, rising from the loose collar of the boy's shirt. Hideous bruises, broken skin, stippled stripes. Shape of a broomstick, Chewie thought, glowering up at the boy's abuser.

Bafti didn't look guilty. He just looked caught.

Aiming his crossbow at Bafti, Chewie planted his left paw at the back of eggshell skull, pressing Igvor's face into the dense fur over his heart. He began to rumble, loud and steady, as he had done when Lumpy was a newbabe, terrified of thunderstorms shaking the rainforest.

Han stared at the boy. But when Han saw Chewie notice this, he turned his face away, into the red light. Letting it bathe him opaque, expressionless.

"Chewie." Han's voice was flat, yet distinct from the throbbing menace of the song. From the Imps, still calling for authority and mercy never mustered on Igvor's behalf. "Take the kid to the _Falcon._ "

 _Chewie._ The _Falcon._ Such identification was not the braggadocio that both signalled and cloaked Han's secret, tenacious hope.

Han was not the image of himself as outlaw anymore, not the antihero striding striped across the holonet. He was not the iconography adopted by girls and boys at aspirational play in East Coronet, strings tied at thigh and hip, scrap-metal as the brash old-fashioned blaster. Running the streets in sulphurous yellow dusk, whooping irreverence at Darth Vader. Calling out _Kid!_ to Luke Skywalker, calling the gleeful, fraternal order: _Blow this thing and go_ _home._

Tonight Han Solo was his own lethal shadow. A silhouette etched in red; deep-set eyes lost in darkness. He advanced on Bafti, jukebox beat marking his inexorable bootfalls.

Igvor in one arm, crossbow still readied along the other, Chewie backed fast for the door.

"I wanted to, to help him," Bafti tried. He licked his lips. "I gave him a home, I—"

"Home, huh. _Help._ " Han said, lifting his blaster. "Know all about that."

Chewbacca got Igvor out on the lot before his ears picked up the three fast shots. And then the song's last discordant note.

XXXXXXXXX

Igvor _had_ a home, he said in-flight, when he could finally speak. It was on the third Tsmibi moon, a refuge for Mir exiled by the Empire from their ancestral world. He sat next to Chewie on the _Falcon's_ curved couch with a blanket—not the soft green, Chewie knew better than to fetch that, but the scratchy white from the med-bunk—draped around his shoulders. Igvor's hands not shaking quite so much, clutched on his mug of kaffe, liberally laced with whiskey.

Igvor had a family, too: mother, father. Sisters. They must miss him, he said, they must believe him dead. A year ago, he'd left his home to attend an Inkkat culinary school advertised around the galaxy. It was a front run by body-dealers; he'd been bought by Bafti, his galactic passport destroyed before his eyes. Worked day and night in the pub. Every job. Beaten, starved. The Imperial couple coming in daily for their cut.

Would they come after the ship? Igvor begged. Bafti said he'd track Igvor down, if he escaped. He knew from Igvor's destroyed papers where he lived. Bafti said he'd send Imperials to kill his parents. To sell his sisters into. Into...

Chewie couldn't speak Basic, just understood it. So he looked expectantly at Han, sitting apart from them, in the single seat at the navigation panel. Han said nothing. Just went on entering co-ordinates, right hand steady and sure on switches as it had been on his weapon less than half an hour earlier.

 _You are safe,_ Chewie wrote, at last, in on a flimispad in Aurebesh. _Your slavers are dead._ _Your family is safe._

Reading the note, Igvor began to weep his relief.

Abruptly Han stood, gulping his own measure of Whyren's. A grimace at the burn of it, or at something else. Tossed the words over his shoulder, as he stalked from the main hold, "Comm your folk. You're goin' back."

The cockpit door hissed shut on Igvor's disbelief and gratitude.

That night cycle, in his cabin—Igvor fed and tucked into the med-bunk—Chewie lowered to his knees and raised open paws to the grated ship ceiling. Closed his eyes, said it three times. _I offer my honor to my ancestors._ So that pride in his life-debt did not overtake him.

XXXXXXXXX

It was the detour to Tsmibi 3—a destination entered in the _Falcon's_ datalog as _balls-south of nowhere—_ that really cost their run. And it should have been days longer to Hoth according to the course Han and Chewie planned out together. But after they took off from the tropical moon, Han waited until Chewie went off-shift to his hammock...and then he slashed the ship across his own route.

When Chewie woke to find them already in the Anoat sector he stormed into the cockpit, howling at his reckless charge. His fur metaphorically blowing back with the speeds Han had them at.

What had happened, Chewie demanded, to yesterday's flimsi charts? Had Han simply crumpled them up the second Chewie went to bed? What happened to the hours poring over co-ordinates with mechstylus and laser-compass? What of Han's innocent expression last night, nodding gravely as Chewie impressed upon him the dangers of black holes, of bounty hunters? Of Imperial blockades, of—wait.

By the mighty wroshyr, did Han cross _Hutt space?!_

At this Han scrubbed his hands over his stubbled cheeks. He gave a short, remorseless laugh, as though he couldn't quite believe himself. His clothing rumpled, hair crazed, brow creased, Han clearly hadn't been to sleep. Yet his long legs jittered, and his eyes were so...possessed, there was no point ordering Han to rest.

Not when the Princess was on Hoth.

So Chewie, still roaring condemnation— _Hutt space! Hutt sp_ —lumbered to his own seat to take over supervision. For better or worse they were hurtling in hyper, not much left to do on the dash; Chewie kept an eye on the chrono, running down the last hours until they hit frozen atmosphere of the new base. Monitored the teetering red levels of pressure, oxygen, fuel, shielding, power.

And soon Chewie thought Han had fallen asleep. So long was he silent in his seat, arms folded across wrinkled shirt and vest, eyes shut and head tilted back. But then Han spoke.

"What was the question?"

 _Pardon?_

"Your question. At the bar." Eyes still closed, Han managed the ghost of a smirk. "Y'know. Heart 'n', uh. Mettle."

Ah. Occasionally when exhausted, and in the enforced suspension of space travel, Han grew pensive. Honest. Reflective.

It was in a mood like this that an exhausted youth, eye blacked and nose broken by his superior officer's fist, had made his first confession to the Wookie he'd saved. The Wookie he didn't know understood Basic. _Had it bad before, pal. But this is worse._ Staring out the transport shuttle port at receding Carida, Han Solo sighed. _Thought, this time, it'd work out._

Now Chewie regarded the older version of that man _._ A dreaminess to his matured face. A thwarted yet stubborn softness. Difficult to reconcile with the killer specter of earlier—or, on second thought, not. Not at all.

 _Very well,_ Chewie began. _To understand what it means, what you need—_

With a creak of leather, Han shifted his hips. And something slipped from where it was tucked between Han's right thigh and the arm of the seat. Fell to the grated floor with a muffled thump.

Chewie cocked his head. He had helped load Han's take from the Inkkat megamall. And Han had gloated over all of it, the converted payoff of some impulsive sabacc investment: crates of kaffe, nerf jerky, frozen tuber sticks and vegetables. Sausage, steaks. Preserved fruit. The canned scalefish that made Han gag but Chewie devoured; they kept his fur glossy. Wheels of cheese, powdered eggs and milk. Ale, whiskey. Leia's beloved puffcorn snacks, Luke's sundried jokish berries. Han himself wasn't overly invested in favorite foods. He'd got himself gloves, snow-boots. A heavy navy parka with fur-lined hood.

But Had had never mentioned, nor revealed, this little parcel that he scrabbled to grab up before Chewie saw it.

At Chewie's gentle growl Han gave up his attempt at concealment. He sat back, held them now openly in his lap: tiny house-boots of felted govath-wool, soled in supple hide. Tied with velvet cord, scented with Naboo lavender. Not available at the type of shop from which crates of provisions were dubiously sourced.

Chewie frowned thoughtfully; Han seized the chance to take it as judgement.

"Yeah, I paid for 'em outta pocket," Han said hotly. "So what?"

This _was_ a costly diversion from their debt to Jabba. But it was one Chewie vehemently supported; the miniature creature who would fit these cozy boots, for all her bravery and power, her luxuriant and admirable hair, did not boast a Wookie insulation layer.

 _I approve of your courting gift._

Han flushed. "Ah hells Chewie, no one said—"

With a pointed glance at the new size-twelve winter boots stuffed under the passenger seat, Chewie pointed out that, despite Han's insistence that the green blanket was his—that Chewie had simply overlooked it for the last, oh, _forever—_ these slippers were rather harder to explain away.

Han opened his mouth, closed it. Exhaling through his nose he slanted a look at Chewie, warring defiance and vulnerability. But he did not bolt, he did not flee.

 _Unless this is a token of apology._ _Then you have failed._ Chewie tweaked a dial. _Those must be woven from the pliable marfffa-reeds that grow by the Chenataa River._

Chewie did not know what it was about, the fight between Han and Leia, their last night on Yavin 4. But there had been no mistaking the anger in both voices. The hurt, like water rising to fill a pit gouged out of earth. Han didn't explain it, after. He'd crashed into the cockpit, barking the takeoff protocol that Chewie knew by heart. Then was grimly mute for countless timeparts. Not sulking—Han's woundedness was too real for that—but girding his bruised heart with self-righteousness, yes.

At first Han's refusal to contact Leia was obviously sheer pride. Not only was Han Solo never actually _wrong,_ if he somehow tripped and fell into mistake in some way that wasdecidedly _not his fault,_ he wouldn't apologize over messages parsed by Rebel intelligence. But when enough time had passed for Han to crack and try to reach the Princess—a duration Chewie estimated at all of six hours—they were far enough into thickly occupied systems that Han couldn't risk drawing attention to the _Falcon_. Not a datapad message, not a holocall; all sent pings tracked by spiky-legged Imperial probes, crawling slyly through space.

And after they were free of _that_ threat, into free space, it was too late: the Rebels were due to begin evacuation from Yavin. No encryption codes yet established for the fledgling base on Hoth.

Han cleared his throat.

"See, that's—yeah, I gotta get back fast. Becau—" Han swallowed, winced. "She might think."

He trailed off. Genuine pain in his face.

Bending forward in his seat, Han braced his elbows on his splayed knees. Turning the bundled slippers over in his hands. He ran his thumb across sturdy, even stitching; across fleece lining, deep and white against sky-blue felt. And he wrenched it loose in one gruff breath: "Don't want Leia to think I'd leave her."

Han got up then, and went into the main hold, Chewie's lesson forgotten. And Chewie swallowed his illustrative question: _To understand, ask yourself: who have_ you _wrapped?_

XXXXXXXXX

The last hour of hyper, Han hadn't slept or eaten, or collapsed, as any sane being would do after the gruelling gauntlet he'd just flown. He sat at the dejarik table, gnawing his lip over his dented datapad. It went on and on, the muted click of typed Aurebesh, punctuated with soft Olys swearing, the frequent blip of deletion.

Han evidently settled on something (ideally, Chewie mused, something like _My Princess!_ _Choose me! After we have bested our enemy_ _we_ _shall build a house in the trees and make beautiful babes and walk in glory all our lives)_ , because he sent a message to her as soon as they were in range; Chewie saw the time and Leia Organa's datapad code register on the screen of the transmit array.

And once on Hoth, past ten local time, Han left his ship almost as it docked. Leaping off the ramp before it met the floor of the hangar. Chewie chuckled when he heard the gasped curse as Han was hit with frigid air. He'd told Han to wear the new parka, but _no,_ Han was _fine_ in his spacer's jacket, and he didn't need a _mothe—_

"— _errfucker,_ " Han breathed in awed horror, as the icy teeth of Hoth bit him.

Leaning in the main hatch, Chewie watched Han work his way across slick tarmac toward the white warren of corridors carved into hard snow. First his typical long, impatient gait, and when that nearly put him on his rump, Han slowed, arms slightly held out to his sides. But soon Han found his stride, a silly but determined leap-and-glide that depended on rhythm to maintain grip. Anticipation in every line of his frame.

Han returned alone. He came back up the ramp slowly, as though he ached; gold skin dulled with cold and fatigue. He left the ramp down, the hatch unlocked. Standing at the cooker, frying kliktak eggs, Chewie did not have to ask if Han found her. There seemed to be no return message, either: Han checked his datapad and then went into his cabin. Hopefully to finally sleep.

But Han came back into the main hold towelling his hair. Wearing those pants so frayed that one of these days they were going to bare unmentionable zones. The prize Chewie had won at the swoop-race, the yellow shirt with the seal-pup printed on it.

Not looking at Chewie, Han took up his datapad and sprawled back onto the curved couch, opening his favorite instructional holoshow. He refused Chewie's offer of eggs and frybread with a challenging glare. And Chewie gave Han a wave, muttering _Go on! Obviously this was what you meant to do all along. Test your capacity for sleep-deprivation. Starve yourself to death—_

"Forgive me for caring about the hyperdrive," Han snapped.

 _Yes. This is what is keeping you up. Your caring for—_

"I ain't hearin' this," Han bellowed, thumb jammed on the volume button until "This Old Ship" drowned out everything else.

Chewie clicked his tongue in exasperation. Put the kettle on.

Steps tripped quick and light up the ramp just after the kettle whistled.

XXXXXXXXX

Princess Leia wore a white quilted snowsuit, white boots; wide braids wreathed her elegant head. To Chewie, enveloping her in a massive hug at the top of the ramp, the Princess felt slender as Igvor, but incomparably stronger. Under her compact but well-trained muscles, her fine bones felt like resilient metal. Leia Organa was a warrior, a leader. Not, ever, the hint of tremble to her.

But there was, Chewie saw as he carefully reset Leia on her feet, held her slightly apart to smile and greet her, a hesitance. A hint of disappointment in her face—almost perfectly obscured, the Princess was wonderfully mannered, especially for a human, and Chewie knew she was genuinely fond of him. But Chewie also knew the reason for her minute deflation: he was not Han Solo. Not Han, there to meet Leia at the mouth of the Falcon after their disagreement, their separation.

So Chewie ushered her into the main hold, furry finger held to his mouth in the universal gesture for hush.

Han was truly asleep, this time. Sitting up in the repulsor couch, head on a slight sideways cant. Hands schoolboyishly palm-down on his thighs, socked feet off-kilter beneath the checkered table. Lips serious and pursed. Fine vertical line between his brows, as though he was puzzled to find himself unconscious. Deep, regular breaths moved the cartoon on his chest. His datapad propped on the table, blaring on about hyperdrive maintenance.

And under the arm Chewie had slung over Leia's level shoulders, he felt something leave her. Hard to say what, exactly, beyond obvious concern for Han and Chewie's safety. The fear that Han would not return to the Rebellion, whether or not of his own volition. The fear that he _would_ return, but only because he'd exhausted every other option. Whatever the source of Leia's dissipating tension, relief blossomed in its place. And in her _face,_ softening and pinkening as she studied the sleeping captain.

This was not a man exploiting a convenient port. Leia had not come aboard to discover the aggressively cavalier smuggler, watching holos and wolfing a late supper. Job completed, throwing casual greeting to a woman who was perhaps only his employer. No! This was just a man, unguarded and exhausted, and what that meant was undeniable.

Han Solo had moved all worlds to return.

Leia's eyes glistened, and her red mouth curved—first a tender quirk, but then a quiver. She slid, then, into the booth close to Han, let her palm hover just over his furrowed brow, creeping under his shock of brown hair. Nodded to find his temperature normal—for a Corellian, anyway, her wryly raised eyebrow acknowledged.

Han went on sleeping, deeply. So Chewie handed Leia a mug of the hot Corellian Breakfast tea that he'd had steeping, turned off the datapad. Told her, in careful Shyriiiwook, an abbreviated version of what had transpired. How they had been on schedule, until the Wyrwulf and Whistle. That they had rescued a Mir boy there. And that the captain had set a different course after.

Chewie did not speak of the killing. It was not a lie of omission, but it was not his story. It was implicit, and that was enough: Leia was perceptive, empathetic, and hard to shock—and in her way, Chewie knew, she had been wounded ruthless as Han.

But when Chewie described how Igvor had run at the spaceport, run, run, to be received into the arms of his clan, Leia held up a palm. Then turned it inward, pressed her fingers to her lips. Closed her eyes and shook her head, and Chewie understood: this was a step too far for Leia Organa, to hear stories of reunion with beloved family, believed dead.

As though he sensed he was needed, Han stirred. He unfurled his long body into a stretch, thumbed at toothpaste on the corner of his lip. Blearily blinked down, and then he came awake all at once.

"Leia?" he said, hoarsely. " _Leia._ "

"Hello, Han," Leia spoke for the first time tonight. Those wet eyes dancing and her smile like dawn.

XXXXXXXXX

Han waved his arm, cheek stuffed with noodles. Telling his version of their adventure, so goofy and expressive you'd never identify him in a lineup as the deadly avenger.

"So they're all: hey you, fake pants—"

"To think I was wondering which code-name to assign you."

Han prodded Leia's shoulder with a chopstick.

"Go on, Sir Pants," she regally allowed.

"Imperial weave." Han drank water, wagging an elliptical finger. "That's what she said. Impossible to fake—oh _oh,_ and then, impersonating an officer, imprisonment!" Face suffused with delight, Han crowed the punch-line: "And I think: Geez! You usin' this many _imps_ on purpose?"

Gloved arms submerged in suds, Chewie rolled his eyes. Han was always butchering his best lines.

Leia choked on her own broth. " _Imp_ ossible," she said, in her best clipped Imperial accent, after she'd swallowed her laughter. The Small Princess was an excellent mimic, though she kept this wicked, irreverent talent under wraps. " _Imp_ ersonating."

"I know!" Han made a sort of beak of his fingers, gave that a voice so unabashedly ridiculous Chewie goggled at him. "Blahr, fake trousers! _blahr-de-blahr,"_

"Oh no! Don't _imp_ risonate me," Leia drawled out of the side of her mouth, in excellent replication of Han's own tone. So excellent, in fact, that _Han_ goggled at _her._

"Princess, where you been hidin' _that?_ " Han smiled, hesitant at first, then flattered by Leia's accuracy, the observation of him it implied.

"Are you _imp_ ressed?"

Han broke, then: laughed, laughed, tired and giddy, his head falling back, eyes squeezed into fine curved moons. Leia laughed too, feasting her eyes on him as though she couldn't believe it, that he was here.

His head was still tilted when Leia nestled suddenly in, under his arm.

"Oh, I missed you," Leia said, soft and all in a rush, into his chest. Blushed.

And Leia couldn't see it, but Chewie did: the way Han's eyes flew open on the ceiling, deep green, then gentled and focused at once. His arms curved around her, and he lowered his cheek to her head.

"You c'n...stay," Han murmured. "Over. If you..." A short inhalation stirred her hair. "Want."

Leia drew back, gently breaking the circle of Han's hold. She looked at him so intently, with so much heat, that Chewie felt terrible for his presence; he was no voyeur. But if he moved he would shatter the moment, and this was unacceptable blunder.

 _I am a tree,_ Chewie told himself, Malla's morning meditation in his was no good at meditating, himself. _I am a tree—_

"I do," Leia said, quiet and serious as a vow. "Want.

Han stared down at her, lips parting softly, throat working. She looked back. Their faces scared, expectant, exhilarated. To Chewie, both were achingly young and lovely.

Then Leia's face fell. "I can't."

Han blew out a small, brave breath. "Hey, no proble—"

"No, I—" Leia shook her head, so hard that a frond of hair escaped, tumbling to her temple. Han's eyes traced it. "There's this...thing. Tomorrow morning, oh-eight-thirty. I have to be there two hours early." She smiled sly play. "You're back just in time."

Han raised a brow.

"There will be breakfast," Leia said sweetly.

"Well hell, Chewie, hear that?" Han called, bolstered again in brashness. "Maybe you'll get your precious Beebleberry Ripple after all."

XXXXXXXXX

Chewie was outside, tending to a landing strut, when the main hatch whispered open, revealing Han and Leia. _Great Leaves of Heaven!_ Chewie muttered. He'd been trying to avoid them, to give them—

Leia moved down the ramp. Han hovered at the top, antic, as though he couldn't decide whether to follow or stay. Halfway to the bottom Leia paused. Stepped again, then suddenly wheeled back to Han, lively and resolved.

Holding Han's eyes, she said, "Tomorrow."

Han stared a beat. Then his rare broad smile burst free, and heedless of his bare feet, he stepped to meet her on the freezing ramp. Gazing down at her, his face alight.

"If." Leia lowered her lashes. "If that's...all right."

"Always. _Sweetheart._ You're always—"

Nervous, Leia tried for levity. "Just checking. Spacer's rules, and all—"

Tenderly, insistently, Han stroked that loose tendril behind her ear.

 _I am a bird,_ encouraged the Malla who lived, lovingly, in Chewie's head. Obediently Chewie glided away from the couple, unnoticed, as they leaned close. _I am a bird._

And as he left Han and Leia to their reunion, Chewie pondered. It was better, he decided, that he and Han had never got to the lesson. Like death, mercy; wrath, love, _wrapped_ was not a simple sum to be taught with berries, nor visible rules of nature to be illustrated on forest walks with Lumpy. These were life lessons, rough and sweet, cruel, beautiful and true—and they took root as they would in the living heart.

Chewie nodded his gratification. Another productive excursion with his charge. And he left Han Solo with Leia Organa, to grasp, at last, the impossible concept of love for himself.


	4. Luke Skywalker 1

Natural waking was rare for Luke Skywalker on Hoth. He was accustomed to the strong pull of double suns; here, dawn was inky at worst, dreary at best, and rarely breached the white walls of Echo Base.

This morning was different. This morning Luke woke not to his comm, but on a conviction. It wasn't residue of a dream. It wasn't strike of lightning either. It was a truth that felt, to Luke, like Leia herself: calm, yet commanding attention.

 _Today, Leia will know._

Eyes still closed, Luke stretched his toes against the stitched end of his sleep-sack; mentally he reached out, too. Yet the more Luke applied intellect to his intuition, the more its meaning eluded him.

 _Buzzzzztt._

Lost in concentration, Luke slapped the comm on his footlocker, frowning when the noise persisted. Never mind that its abrasiveness bore no resemblance to Luke's actual alarm, the rush of waterfall, which Leia had set for him back on Yavin 4.

How Han had glowered at him.

Two scant weeks past the Death Star, then. Unlikely but powerful bonds developing between Princess, farmboy and smuggler, yet rivalry lingered between the latter. If not quite jostling for her romantic favor, both men craved the approval of the young royal leader. There was something magnetic about Leia Organa, something so brave, wise, uncompromising, that to be in her presence made a being feel profoundly known. Whether good or ill, the Princess had the power to summon one's deepest, truest self.

But it wasn't from Luke's or Han's best selves that they behaved, over that Yavin breakfast.

It started well enough. Luke was sitting with Leia in the mess at what was becoming their regular spot. This was an awkward, triangular table, shoved against a back wall, behind a high partition-screen on which ran Rebel holobulletins. In this makeshift booth, over Anoat oatmeal, Luke confessed to Leia his mortification: overnight, Wes Janson had sneakily set Luke's comm alarm to the medal ceremony fanfare. The whole bunkroom had woken to the blaring notion that Luke Skywalker considered himself galactic savior. And during his story Leia, displaying intriguing comic timing when out of everyone's immediate vision, covertly messaged Luke to set the theme ringing _._

They were still laughing when Han Solo filled the gap between wall and partition.

Han's arrival silenced the companions in surprise; he had never visited the mess hall. For a supposed hustler, spiceholds loaded with much-needed Rebel reward money, it was odd that Han didn't avail himself of free food. Yet here he was, acting like he'd been here at this table every morning, cheerfully spooning porridge with Leia and Luke.

Han didn't wait for invitation to sit. He plunked a chair he'd raided somewhere at the point of the table's arrow, declaring himself the inevitable answer. Once seated, Han warily scanned the alcove like it was another trash compactor: shoulders shifting in shirt and vest, stretching his legs alongside Leia's chair in a way that made Luke aware how neatly his own frame fit the constrained space.

And Leia looked at Han. Luke caught it, the briefest peep from under her lashes, yet it crackled with special interest. Han didn't miss it either, toasting Leia's notice with his ceramisteel travel-flask.

Pink lit Leia's cheeks. Not missing, herself, Han's sly gambit: _you look at me; now you know I know it._

"What is that?" Leia shot back, so fast and undaunted Luke saw what she was like in hand-to-hand combat.

Han didn't speak. His smile slanting between playful and taunting, he held his tongue, dangling reply just above Leia's diminutive reach. Luke liked and respected Han, he truly did. But he understood in that testing moment why Wedge Antilles had yesterday mused, watching Han howl _off off fuck ooooffffff_ in a hail of sparks on the _Falcon's_ roof: _Does Solo think his ideas are_ smart?

"Why, it's genuine Felucian dark, Sweetheart," Han drawled at last. So pleased and bluff he may have raised, picked, roasted and ground the piquant beans himself. But Han was no farmer: native to the Coroneti inner city, Threepio had imparted to Luke unasked, based on some subtle accent. _An area of_ _terrible deprivation, Master Luke._ Han prodded at Leia's own flimsiboard cup, filled with weak, grainy instant kaffe. "Not that reconstituted...sand they got in here."

 _Sand._ Han didn't look at Luke when he said it, innocently absorbed in twisting the lid from his flask. Something in that statement, though, something intended.

"It smells divine," Leia said, with no flirtation whatsoever. In fact she sounded severe, like Han was breaking several rules that were so evident she refused to voice them. No, Leia was going to let Han run like a wild equun, far and fast as he chose into his own crassness.

Han either missed Leia's disapproval or chose to ignore it. With oil-grimed knuckles he shoved the steaming flask forward on the table toward her. This time a real smile, sweet and rare as the greel-syrup flavoring the air. "Ah g'wan, Highness, I know you wa—"

"I drink mine black, Captain Solo," Leia said, her own smile more lovely than on holovision, and more savage.

Surely the Princess had delivered diplomatic refusal countless times before. But there was something else to this, Luke saw, something in Leia's expressive eyes that she would have hidden, had she seen it. A competitive spark, hinting reciprocal interest in her rangy, smirking opponent.

Han gaped at Leia as though she'd just struck out with a boot to his wrist, sending his blaster flying, useless. Then his lips twitched in tandem with his one shrugged shoulder. Taking back his flask, he lounged in his chair, open at the knees, all bored, masculine ease. But he cradled the fragrant offering against his chest as though it was some small, wounded beast. Under Leia's cool, ongoing look, Han swigged defiantly from the flask. Careless and deep like he'd spent no time at all trying to get it right: the ratio of sweetness to heat, comfort to bitterness, with which to approach the warrior Princess.

Then Han, amber eyes narrowed on Leia's, wiped his mouth on his white sleeve. A show of commoner crudeness, yes, but also to hide the tiny grimace that told Luke, in a cinematic flash, that Han also took his kaffe black.

It surely stung Han, to have gambled on Leia's wants and lost. In front of Luke Skywalker no less. And this reversal gave Luke a stab of satisfaction. Enjoying another's misfortune was not like him: in the Resistance, Luke had a budding and deserved reputation for kindness. But if anyone could drive even a compassionate being to relish his humbling, it was Han Solo!

And Luke was young, with his own nursed cells of defensiveness.

Luke and Leia were the same age, but in the company of Princess and cocky spacer Luke felt, often, eons younger. A mere halfmoon ago, Luke Skywalker had never been anywhere. Meanwhile, if Han's pedigree could not approach Leia's, his passport did; shamelessly he leveraged this for her attention.

For example. Just last night, Han had invited Luke and Leia onto the _Falcon_ for supper, which turned out to be miniature sea monsters, boiled red in their shells. They made desert-raised Luke convulsively shudder—those spiny _legs!_ —but Han, Leia and Chewie devoured them with melted Tanaabian butter. All knowing to use their hands, as was some custom.

Han had planned it like that, somehow Luke knew it. Everything of the evening—even the way he unfolded his long body, casually reaching to hidden shelving for Whyren's Reserve—was calibrated to Han's promotion. He was tall. He was both relaxed and wily. He had a man's taste in drink, a man's age, man's gravel voice. A man's coarse hair at the vee of his shirt, a man's lack of care who saw it.

A man's ability to get what he wanted.

Sucking meat from shells with easy skill, Han just as ably steered the conversation to travel. Planets he and Leia had both been to. As they all got tipsy on rare blue whiskey Han unveiled another holdout cache: nimble wit, intelligence. Behind his taciturn public mask, he could be lively, engaging, curious.

And between bouts of laughter and rapidly exchanged impressions of various worlds that felt, to Luke, like a ball being batted back and forth over his head, Leia paused. She rested her chin on her fist, hooded gaze absorbed on Han's animated face, tracing it like some new map. Roving from sheaf of hair to crooked nose to crooked mouth to enigmatic scar and back, always, to the shifting spectrum of Han's eyes.

Luke and Chewie made conversation best as they could. But Chewie was an early riser and soon he took himself off to his hammock, leaving Luke silent. Feeling a callow adolescent. Even his bravery was naive, unshaded against Han's compelling grays, his balance of bloodstripes and reluctance. Luke wasn't _ashamed_ of his upbringing, his lack of worldliness or complication, but—

The two of them, Han and Leia, were so vivid. Sarcastic. Sexy. Lethal. Swift. Riffing off one another, watching each other's mouths as they spoke. Was it scrimmage, between them, or some gift exchange? There was no pause in the whip-crack of their talk, only enhanced by alcohol, for Luke to leap in—and with what? Womp rats? Tosche station?

Leia would have listened, had Luke tried. Not only acutely sensitive to others' feelings, Leia was the Alderaanian Princess, well-schooled in social fairness. But on this night she was young, too, young and drinking, bereaved yet—or _therefore_ —bent on fun. She had shed inessential graces such as the rules of etiquette.

If repartee with Han made Leia feel even slightly better, Luke would never begrudge her.

So Luke sat throughout, pushing that ink-eyed hellbug around his plate. _Seafood._ At Luke's snort—by now starved, drunk and irritated with Han's charm offensive—Han had, without missing a beat in the riveting tale of twelve parsecs, _twelve,_ passed over the platter of bread. Set the entire white loaf, complete with serrated knife, before Luke with an avuncular wink, as though accommodating a child's fussy taste.

Luke flushed red. Had felt it then, the measure of Han's clever ruthlessness. A sort of brutal riddle, here: the plain food said _No chance, Kid._ And the knife warned, _This can get worse._

When Han _liked_ Luke! Luke knew that; even if he hadn't sensed it, there was proof. Han avoided most everyone else, yet he invited Luke aboard his ship, tinkered, talked. He'd saved Luke's life. Even asked his advice on a particularly thorny mechanical glitch.

Han Solo, after all, saw no moral error in lifting reward money from the coffers of a desperate Rebellion. It should be no surprise, then, that he could and did like Luke fine, even as he subjected him to strategic attack. It was clean logic: Han's rules served what Han wanted. And what Han wanted was to impress Leia Organa. If that came at the price of scorning Luke before her, so be it.

But over breakfast the smuggler had learned his own hard lesson. He held no dominion outside the _Falcon._

Leia had rules of her own.

She had an army to lead, a war to win! Enjoying a privately hosted meal was no betrayal of her goals, her principles. But the Princess drinking expensive kaffe in the mess while the troops made do with instant was a gross breach of loyalty. Of shared commitment. Of solidarity.

Even an Outer Rim hick could appreciate that.

There was also a personal level to Leia's rebuke. She'd had fun last night. She had enjoyed Han's hosting, as under other circumstances, so would have Luke: Han could be irresistible, and his will was formidable. But he was arrogant, too. He believed he had Leia solved after one evening, had swaggered in here to prove it. To sweep her off her tiny feet with his dashing insight.

Leia was having _none_ of that. Perhaps it was an unacceptable form of submission, for someone famous as the Princess, to have others presume to know her. She would not concede to being told who she was, ever. By anyone. No matter how witty, how given to inexplicable decency. How interestingly scarred and travelled.

And maybe—just maybe, Luke thought, Leia was troubled by Han's callousness in using Luke as stooge. She _liked_ Luke, Luke felt that too; liked him aside from the fact that he had, you know, destroyed the grotesque machine that murdered her planet. Luke and Leia instinctively trusted one another, they clicked at eerie frequency. It did not make Han desirable in Leia's eyes to mock Luke, particularly given the natural gifts the smuggler had put on such gaudy display for her.

At the dawning awareness in Han's face that he'd badly misjudged Leia, Luke flashed back to Mos Eisley. A rugged stranger in a cantina, scoffing at Luke's insistence he could fly.

Luke felt it well up in him, then: smugness. Gleeful opportunity, _take the chance take it take it._ This was the antithesis of the calm surety he'd felt in the trench run. But Luke didn't heed that telling difference. Wouldn't have heeded, even, Ben Kenobi intoning, _Luke. No. What the hell are you doing._

So Luke, both hero and human, plunged headlong into punitive action.

He _had_ meant to ask Leia to help him choose a new alarm from the vast galactic network of comm effects, though not in front of Han's affected skepticism. But now Luke did ask, and Leia accepted, with a smile. Luke smiled back, but his mind was racing ahead, skimming over the complicated grit of his request.

Without looking at his commscreen, Luke thumbed _play_ on the first sound-file: a clear liquid spill of birdsong.

Leia blinked her huge eyes at Luke. Her smile fading, then confusedly trying to revive itself in a way Luke would find heartbreaking in retrospect. But in that moment he didn't notice. Because he was watching Han. Because Luke was, even without taking any notice of the woman herself, flaunting his closeness to the Princess— _Leia_ was going to set _his_ comm! Every time it rang, Han would feel it—

Vengeance was intoxicating.

Giddy, Luke clicked through file after file. Chimes of some kind, music. Animal calls, breezes. Water. He chattered impressions for each one; Leia sat straight-backed and silent through these countless, accelerating, frenetic snippets. Still tilted back in his seat Han stared at Luke, lips open in disbelief—and then those heavy brows lowered, eyes constricting into fighting slits. Luke took Han's clear anger to be due to his upstaging _._ And that anger fed Luke, fed whatever this growing force was, rising in his chest, hot and dark and pressing.

It wanted to escape as vicious laughter.

It might have, had Luke not been stopped by the next piece of music, stunned. A haunting and gorgeous arrangement of notes. Enthralled, Luke let this file play long, not intending it for his comm, it was too moving and special for that.

"Wow," Luke breathed. "Isn't it beaut—"

Han looked at Leia, his eyes gone wide yellow; his urgent concern for her made Luke forget his spite, made Luke look too.

Leia was white. She sat frozen, the space around her seeming to shimmer with feeling: shock, diplomatic instinct, dignity.

Unimaginable suffering.

Han slammed the front legs of his chair down, and the clatter jolted Leia free. She stood up just as Han lunged for Luke's comm on the table; she got it first. With her trigger finger, Leia terminated the poignant song. The sound of waterfall rushed in to take its place. Her hands shaking, the Princess kept her word; she selected this file for Luke's alarm. Flung down the comm, and she was gone.

Numbly Luke picked up his comm, trying to weigh what had just happened. He felt he was waking from some ugly, manic dream. They had been laughing, Leia and him. Her porridge still warm, mostly untouched except for a small scooped furrow and—

A huge hand snaked out, swiped Luke's comm from his grip, quick and deliberate as a slap. Swivelled the device in deft fingers so Luke could see its tiny display. He hadn't cared to check before, but now Luke read them there, the titles that corresponded to each sound effect he'd played. Holding the comm mercilessly still, Han clicked through sound-bites at stern intervals. All those living noises were yoked to evocative names. _Isatabith Rain, Sanctuary Waves. Snowfall at Winter Palace._

Han halted his broad thumb, hard, on the song Luke loved. And Han, too, let that one run. It was still lovely, delicate and strong.

Oh, all gods. _Theme for a Princess._

Seeing Luke's horror sink in, Han nodded.

Unknowing, or guided by some influence, Luke had been searching the Alderaani setting. And all the while— _sixty sound-files?!_ — Leia sat on her plastisteel chair, regal as on any vanished throne. Left alive all alone, oh, she must have felt so _lonely_ as her new friend blithely exposed her to echo after echo of her extinct home.

Yet she endured. Leia sat, in her supernatural capacity to withstand torture. When Luke would rather lose an appendage than hurt her, this woman he already treasured.

The theme played on. Luke heard himself again, jibbering over it— _oh wow_ that's _beautiful_. Saw anew Leia's blanched color, her trembling fingers as she silenced her song, set it to water. As though attention to this minor duty was the only thing separating her from screaming. Then she left, Han half-rising to go after her, forcing himself back to his seat. For once Han kept his already-famed ass in its place: a stim-runner who had known a Princess a brief two weeks.

And after this cruel holofilm ceased running in Luke's head, he hung it. Waited for Han to sneer something accurate and mean through his teeth.

 _Well, have at it,_ Luke thought, staunchly raising his cleft chin. Only gauging in the face of its loss how dear it was to him, being exempted from Han's cancellation of almost everyone else. But Luke deserved it. In the grips of some jealous, nasty fever, Luke had grievously hurt Leia. And Han...

It hit Luke like voltage when he met Han's green eyes. Han didn't yet know it, and Luke shouldn't know it at all; yet it was fact. Two weeks in, a revolutionary process was underway in the man who'd slung borrowed boots on the panel of a killing station, haggling over a Princess' execution.

Han loved Leia.

Han loved Leia in a way that made Luke see, all at once, that his own love for her was something other. Brotherly. But Han was _in_ love with Leia. Or would be soon enough, when the seed planted in a burst of her blaster bolts nudged life above the hardened earth of Han's heart.

And Han stood, planting his palms on the table in a way that declared his wide shoulders, made Luke think of the hooded crystal snakes just outside the screened Yavin hangar. However, Han didn't bite, there was no venom when he said it—or if there was, it was levelled at himself as much as Luke.

"That music was commissioned for her by her folks."

It hurt Luke worse than the most perceptive strike Han could have mustered. It hurt enough he didn't give it further thought, how or why Han had come to know it.

Han and Luke exchanged a long, pained, searching look. At the end of it, a new code of conduct that both men would observe with one another forever. Unspoken rules rooted not in male jockeying, but in mutual care for Leia. They both wanted her to trust them, wanted to be worthy of her trust. They would both protect her—from everything, including themselves.

With another terse nod Han accepted Luke's stark accord: _no more._

Luke sat a long time at that table, alone, after. But he recovered, and because Luke was no coward, he went to find Leia. Found her on her afternoon lookout shift, grateful when she let him follow. Grateful for the narrow jungle paths that let Luke apologize in person but also in single-file, in turn permitting Leia to listen with famous face obscured.

As tropical heat yielded to night, the path widened, and they walked together; Leia didn't cry, but the dark let her express some of the grief she couldn't get out under blunt sunlight, or the fluoro glare of the mess. Indeed she could speak only the briefest tip of it here, to Luke, face turned up to the cool carved stars.

Leia asked, halting and stiff, Luke to keep the choice she made, for his waking alarm: _Cloudshape Falls._ Her request, yes—had she asked him to delete it, Luke would have done so at once. But she said she'd loved it there, that place, with her parents: and keeping the Alderaani landmark fit Luke's own instinct; it felt craven to erase it, or like dismissal of Leia's bravery in its choosing. Some denial of her unbelievable endurance.

 _Buzt. Buztzzzt. Buzz-buzz-buzzttt._

Jerked from memory Luke sat up into the present. A year-odd later. A lifetime later. Eyes wide and brightest blue.

 _Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzttttttttttttttttttttzzzzzzzzzzzztttt._

Luke broke into laughter, scrambling out of his cot. Wincing as his sock-feet hit frozen floor he hurried high-kneed to the hatch, coding it open to reveal just the tall, leaning man Luke had pictured in his mind.

"Hey, Kid." With near-perfect indifference, Han Solo held out a thermosleeve of kaffe.

XXXXXXXXX

It was funny, how swiftly Han dropped the laconic pose once out of sight of base eyes. Accepting Luke's hug, even squeezing him briefly back before companionably elbowing the younger man's ribs. Telling Luke, in an excited tone far from his customary drawl, he'd found two cases of blue milk— _not the generic powdered stuff, mind you Junior, genuine Tattooine canned._ It was in the kaffe. _Drink up, Kid, we got a meeting to make._ He snapped his fingers. _Hey. Plus._ Han and Chewie had installed a new sim target program in the turret, Luke should come try it out.

"Great," Luke said, somehow fastening his tan insulated vest over his snowsuit as he gratefully gulped kaffe—stars, how he'd missed Han's excellent kaffe, and with real blue milk! Han, meanwhile, paced the constrained bunkroom like a big, tawny lion, thumbs hooked at the small of his back, in his belt, just under the hem of his spacer's jacket. "How about tonight? I'm off-shift."

"Sure, sure," Han said absently, inspecting the lighting panel set into the frozen wall, gray eyes critical and unimpressed. That competitive streak of his stoked by some stranger's practical handiwork. Then Han's gaze roved to the left, over a holocube set into a ledge hacked out of ice. The cool eyes softened then, warmed at the edges; Han picked up the delicate memento with a gentleness casual observers of the smuggler wouldn't have believed.

Luke couldn't see the holopic from where he stood before his reflector, sonic toothbrush tucked in his mouth, but the image rose in his mind. Taken by Chewie on Yavin: Leia sitting on the top railing of a crude fence between the standing Han and Luke, under their arms, hers slung at their waists. All muddy and laughing after a rainy day of obstacle training.

"Hell, I remember this," Han near-gasped, as though the image were some ancient artifact. Luke almost fondly laughed as he removed his brush—it tickled him, a man so technologically savvy and resourceful dazzled over a simple holo—but he caught himself at the sight of Han in the reflector. At the small, private smile in place of the customary smirk; at the rough index extending toward the cube's surface, as though to trace the shape of a face.

Maybe Han was awed by the evidence of his own happiness.

Han looked sharply up, then, and caught Luke's stare. Instantly the sabacc mask tried to take hold, but it flickered as though with bad reception. Carefully setting the cube back, Han bit his cheek against the twitch of tilted lips.

"Hey," Han said. "Kid—not tonight, huh? For the sim, like. I got—" Casting his eyes down, he chewed into his lower lip, now, expression uneasy and overjoyed. "...not tonight."

"No problem," Luke said with exactly the neutrality so eluding Han. "Got dinner plans?"

And Han looked up and met Luke's eyes, finally yielding to his own wide, glowing, ever-growing smile.


	5. Luke Skywalker 2

For Luke, the knowing was never a full picture. Even in childhood it arrived in flashes, phrases, enigmatic fragments; not at predictable or particularly useful moments, either. But the knowing was real. And it always came true.

This was going to come true, too:

A big blond man hammered into a transparisteel panel. Exotic creatures in the water behind his shoulders erupting in silent, iridescent color. A hand clamping his windpipe, and—

"May I sit?"

Head jerking up, Luke scrambled to place himself in time, to focus on the man who'd very man, as a matter of fact, Luke had just watched get choked before an audience of tropical fish.

Prixati Rell stood beside the empty seat at Luke's right. Very real. Yet Luke saw two Rells at once, like an overexposed holo, or was that under? The future man and this younger, layered one over the other.

Luke fumbled at his padded collar to free it, the modest Tatoo behest instilled by Aunt Beru. But _pels_ _efhisq_ stuck in Luke's throat, and not from the sickening dissonance of existing in two places at once. It was an odd thing to choke on, because Luke didn't dislike Prixati Rell. Well...not exactly, he counselled himself. _Dislike_ wasn't in the Jedi playbook, and anyway the guy had done nothing wrong!

Prixati turned to Wedge. _"Eizel_ , Antilles?"

Luke continued reasoning against the instinctive distaste he felt, at this. A being had every right to speak their own language! Prixati would, wouldn't he, to a worldfellow? His overture to Wedge wasn't necessarily provocation of _another_ Corellian—

But it was.

Prixati's glance at the tall, blue-jacketed man seated at Luke's left was quick, but telltale. The latter man gave no sign that he noticed. But then, Han Solo neverdidnotice Prixati Rell. Han seemed to take, if not pleasure, then principled satisfaction in ignoring him; something akin to strike action, or withholding of unjust taxes.

Luke watched Wedge Antilles raise a black brow in Han's direction. Something deferential to this action and something clannish, like a smashball winger yielding the star play to a hometown hero. When Han didn't accept, Wedge's shrug was unbothered, and his grin at Prixati friendly enough. It was a feat of diplomacy fit for admiration by Leia herself; but then, Wedge hailed from Gus Treta Station. A protectorate of Corellia, yes, but also moon to a moon: independent, yet at ease in the orbit of more insistent forces.

" _Yeh, eizel,"_ Wedge said amiably, planting his snowboot on the empty chair, pushing it out toward Rell.

Posture rigid, Prixati sat, draping a flimsi napkin in his lap like it was tsu-seed linen. With nudges of his knuckles he centered his plate, decorated with a tasteful amount of breakfast. This strict eye for arrangement seemed natural to Prixati in a way his greeting of Wedge hadn't.

Looking down at his own chaotic plate—flatcakes in a teetering stack, junaberries tossed on top as carelessly as he treated his balled-up socks—Luke turned the word over in his mind. _Eizel._ Its pleasing roughness rounded by the silver vowels Prixati was born holding in his mouth. Equally wrong, though, in Wedge's cheerful Gusti.

 _(Captain Solo's accent, Master Luke, is native to the slums of—)_

XXXXXXXXX

Speaking of socks, and the Estok.

The last Alliance base had a communal laundry. Twelve autovalets, grouped in an outbuilding that trapped every vampiric insect known to Yavin. The pests had particular craving for Skywalker flesh, so Luke hurled his dirty clothes in the general direction of a unit and fled. But one sweltering afternoon, he returned to discover some jerk had dumped his stuff, crackling with half-finished sonics, on the floor to be nibbled by other jungle scavengers.

All the other machines were in use. Luke's overnight shift began in an hour, and his uniform trousers still grass-stained, souvenir of combat training with one Princess Leia. So, lugging his canvas kitsack, Luke set out for the hangar, uncharacteristically tetchy. It was a solid walk along the overgrown path, and he was hot, itchy, and tired. Last night he'd had another inchoate nightmare, delicate pink sky, red-lit vapor. In the mess hall at lunch, Janson slapped a _Medal Me!_ sign on Luke's back. And then his beloved poncho on a mossy floor, nested by mucous salamanders!

The _Falcon_ 's ramp was lowered when Luke arrived. Han at the top, hip cocked against the inside groove of the open hatch. Tossing a vineapple up and catching it one-handed, he scanned the action on the hangar floor. Captain Detached, Luke thought grouchily, watching an entire Rebellion fail to impress him.

 _Hi, Han._ Dragging his crammed bag up the incline like he was the galaxy's most depressing Giftmother, Luke maintained his manners, damn it, in Aunt Beru's honor. _How are you?_

Han crunched into the apple as though food was some goofy fad he'd been bored into trying. Chewing slowly, he squinted at the badly grass-stained seat of the combat trousers dangling from Luke's bag.

 _Lookin' to me to save your ass again, huh._

And Han did that thing of his, where half his mouth remained impassive, the other twitching upward. An amusement so minor it failed to unite the factions of Han's face, especially with one side stuffed with fruit. But enough to suggest he'd maybe laughed, once or twice, back when he was a baby.

 _I...yeah._ Sighing,Luke slapped at a rising spot on his neck. _Cut me a break, okay? I have laundry—_

 _Laundry!_ Han dropped his apple with a mealy thump; it rolled bumpily down the ramp. _Golly, Kid, you shoulda said._ He stepped back from the hatchway, ushering Luke into the ship. _Can't have a Jedi mixin' up Lights and Darks._

Gritting his teeth, Luke wondered whether smothering Han Solo to death with a lizard-slimed poncho was the path of the Sith.

But that was Han for you, Luke soothed himself as he set the dial on the ancient 'valet. He charged everyone—even those he trusted—admission to the proxy soul he called the _Falcon._ Today, for Luke, the tab came due in fond ridicule. There was nothing to do but pay it.

A half-hour later Luke sat facing another dejarik loss to Chewbacca as he waited out the last sonic cycle. The autovalet humming along for once, but the temperature regulation had glitched out. Han was supine on the deck plates nearby, upper body hidden under the envirounit. All legs and boots, clunking of tools, bitter mutterings. _No go on, go on and quit, you—_ a growl, a clatter— _goddamn Jawa-scrap sonofa—_

Light steps sounded. A small figure appeared in the main hold, her upper half obscured too, behind her own kitbag. Legs visible beneath, bare skin stippled with welts.

Luke winced. Chewie rose, shuffling to the cooker. _I will brew a poultice._

 _Brew a—? Brew?!_ Han howled from under the counter. _Hell, sure, crank that heat!_ On the deck, long thighs writhed like their owner was locked in unseen mortal struggle; the ranting didn't cut off so much as become oddly muffled. _Light a bonfire while you're at it, pal!_

First a vest, then a white shirt darkened with sweat, flew from under battered housing as if spat from the Sarlacc pit. The shirt landed, with inelegant damp weight, across tiny feet, laced neatly into Alliance-issue plimsolls.

Luke's grip on Shyriiwook was still weak, but _dress yourself, vainglorious Corellian!_ seemed the gist of Chewie's instruction.

 _Nope!_ Han's legs kicked in nihilistic delight. _Gotta take it off if this unit's gonna fuck me like th—_

 _Hi, Leia,_ Luke coughed into his fist.

The red stripes froze in mid-jig. Han didn't emerge from under the counter, but after a beat he called a _Hey, Your Worship,_ that was to be at once too hearty and casual. Han knew this himself, if the tempo of his renewed clanking was any gauge of self-consciousness.

 _Hello, everyone._ The kitbag lowered to reveal the face of Leia Organa. Her hair, curling ferny from its crown binding, the girlish copper sun-specks across her nose, made her purpled cheek all the more poignant. One eye closing with the violence of the swelling.

 _Sands, Leia!_ Luke heard his own empathetic shock.

The banging stopped.

Han thrust himself out onto the plates, on his back, shirtless and slick with blue coolant and sweat. With a fight-nasty twist of hips he was up on his boots; Leia's good eye widened as he rose before her, tall and animal. Gently Han grasped her bag, set it on the game-table, and stepped into the space left in Leia's outstetched arms.

He raised his right hand. Stopped it before it could cup her jaw, but Han allowed his yellow eyes their own soft travel over Leia's swollen face. Leia stared back up at him. Both were rapt, inhaling one another in quick, shallow sips.

 _Ishjk, Sweetheart,_ Han murmured at last.

This was, Luke knew from palling around Wedge Antilles, an appeal to some Corellian goddess. Wedge used it in exasperated prayer, busting out of games around this very table. And Han never spoke Corellian in return, never spoke at all in fact as he raked in the pot. Just flashed a smirk that said he'd half-believed in merciful women once, too, back when he was an innocent.

But now Han breathed it like a verse of the saddest song he knew. Like he'd been hurt too, in the heart. Or a curse, as if he'd had yet another desperate hustle betrayed, this one with the universe: _Han_ got hurt. _Leia_ did not.

Leia's delicate eyebrows knitted, then, the way they did in public arguments with Han. Amid the flying barbs, each hurled with absurd repressed passion, there was a point she'd reach. It was only ever a flicker and Luke could never be sure, in the moment, if he saw or sensed it, but it was real, like all emotion. Real as all Luke felt from everyone and everything, and it was here, too, clear in Leia's face as her freckles: _yearning._ Even now, when Han wasn't provoking her or cloaking his motivations; even as he wore love for Leia open and real, in place of his soaked shirt at her feet.

Closing her one open eye, Leia deliberately turned her cheek into the hover of Han's restrained fingers. Something to that action, patient but insistent, showed Luke the root of her consternation. No one got out from life unscathed, let alone war. It was too much to expect, said the slim frown between her eyes, both shut, irritated one streaming. She was marred. She was mortal. She was real, and warm-blooded, this Princess. It was too much to ask, of Leia, that she remain unhurt.

Han's huge, oil-stained palm twitched, then curved to fit Leia's ivory skin. Tilting her chin with his thumb he leaned in, lips parting and stare intense, to the cruel punctures centering the welts. Leia's vigilant spine relaxed, just a fraction, as though he was getting his shoulder under something heavy that oppressed her. To know that Han would look at her humanity up close, with no hesitation.

Leia turned her face back straight, so gently it didn't dislodge Han's touch. Her fingers slipped about his wrist as far as they reached, which wasn't much but made Han's eyes pool vast and green. And when Leia smiled, it made Han smile back, like a giddy boy someone else had been. Something solemn in the moment, something trusting, playful. Something almost..nuptial, it was at once that ceremonial and private.

Abruptly Luke averted his eyes to the Ghhhk piece, projected ghostly and warped on the cloth of Leia's laundry bag. Everyone said something changed between Han and Leia on their recent mission. Truly Luke wanted it all to happen for his beloved friends. Wanted them to seize their happiness, but...ideally when he wasn't in a front-row seat, close enough to get singed with this palpable heat.

The cooker clicked off. Chewie clunked a pot, bubbling with some concoction of herbs and honey, onto the table. _Little Princess. Sit._ With a dazed nod Leia broke from Han. Rather than let his hand hang useless, Han reassigned it to the back of his neck. He stood like this, head bent and other hand braced at his bare waist, as Leia slid into the curved couch next to Luke.

Muttering that he meant _no disrespect to the sacred leaves of the wroshyr,_ Chewie dunked _inferior!_ cotton gauze in the unguent and crouched to begin his ministrations. Leia and Luke laced their fingers primly in their laps with the mischievous telepathy of children. The sticky paste spackled to their bites alleviated the itching almost at once, but something about the obedience, Chewie's paternal tolerance, gave the two irrepressible giggles.

Han took this cue to resume his repairs. Not out of the competitive pique he'd used to get at evidence of Luke and Leia's closeness, but in endorsement of it, Luke sensed, even in relief. With Leia safe with Luke and Chewie Han could pull back, hide his precious half of their crackling moment in his task.

As Han knelt before the cooler unit Leia and Luke played dejarik, letting the mixture go tacky on on their skin.

 _Why us?_ Luke mused.

 _Oh, the beetles bite everyone._ Leia said absently as she scanned the board, considering all the ways she could decimate Luke.

 _Sure, a little, but—look at us, we're...minced._ It did Luke good to make Leia smile, at this. _Why the two of us, the most?_

 _Stout marrow!_ At the sinkChewie thumped his chest, proud as though he'd sired Leia and Luke himself. _Brave blood._

With unsettling lack of surprise, Leia's good eye tracked what Luke had hoped was a bold move from his Mantellian Savrip. _No one could accuse you or Han of cowardice either, Chewie,_ she said. _And neither of you gets—_

 _Bit? Nope. Not through that fur coat._ Han snorted, slipping the shielding grate off the unit. _Can't handle_ my _blood._

 _Nonsense. They bite Corellians._ Steepling her fingers, tapping their tips against her lips, Leia studied the board.

 _Yeah,_ Luke said _. Wedge got a couple—_

 _Prixati Rell, as well,_ Leia said, coolly watching her Molator chomp Luke's Savrip back to Ord Mantell.

Han glanced up. _Oh yeah? Who says?_

 _He told me himself._

 _He_ bit _himself._

Leia choked on the mint water Chewie had prescribed. _Han. That's ridic—_

 _You think that barge don't have a 'valet?_

Leia blinked.

 _Han's right,_ Luke said. _After all, even_ this _boat has a 'valet._

 _Boat?_ Han scowled. _Better wash your clothes in the stream next time, kid._

 _That's not such a terrible idea,_ Leia said. _It's pretty up there._

 _Didn't mean you, Sweetheart._ With his most winning smile, Han opened his arms. _You got free access._

At the display of chest,Leia removed her finger from a button, setting her Houjix down prematurely. Luke, unable to believe his luck, pounced. As the Houjix shrieked Luke leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head, relishing his rare triumph. No one noticed.

As if on cue, the 'valet chirped, declaring the end of its sonic load and its readiness for the next.

 _Han. I need to be treated like everyone else—_

 _Yeah? Tell that to them_ draccul _bugs!_ Han shot back.

The harsh, unfamiliar word caught Luke's attention. Han never lapsed into dialect unless it was swearing. To do so now seemed evidence that things _had_ changed for Han and Leia in Coronet.

 _I_ —Leia protested, _I don't like to presume—_

 _The kid presumed his way up that ramp just fine._

Luke gave a shameless shrug. Again he was ignored, which was a shame, because it was the best impression of Han Solo ever performed. Besides the killer one Leia did when she had a couple whiskeys under her utility belt.

Leia countered. _Luke is held to different—_

 _Luke is The Hero of the Rebellion._ Luke said it of himself. With self-mocking holonews inflection, yes, but it made the point, and neither Han nor Leia missed it.

Only Leia was royal, only Leia on High Command. But they were all of them in this room famous, four of the survivors of Yavin. To Luke, acclaim meant imbalance. Some observers anointing him perfect, looking to him for answers he didn't have. Others tending growths of resentment, mulched in envy and peevishness. Luke felt it each time he crossed the mess; the pressure, the projection. It could drive a being crazy, if you let it, if you unplugged from the essential source. Of course Luke made mistakes. But he tried to keep faith not with beings' approval but the defiant, creative spirit that made resistance possible in the first place.

Leia toyed with torn upholstery. Thoughtful, the way she got when you hit her with a solid point. Han shot Luke a grateful look.

 _C'mon._ Han's voice softened. _Ain't about sneakin' perks, Leia, look at you, huh? All swole up,_ chirq _as a little—_ The crooked upper lip tweaked in inspiration. _What if we gotta hit another last-minute mission? You gonna dress up as a cherry topato?_

At _we, mission,_ Leia glowed so hard the lurid swelling seemed to recede.

 _No, no._ She nodded crisply, herresolve made permissible by comparative obligation. _You're right, I'm being silly. I'd love to do my laundry here._ She looked at Chewie. _If you two don't mind._

Chewie gave a sudsy thumbs-up.

 _Thank fuuhhuuuck,_ Han groaned, sinking back to his knees, eyes rolling in crude piety. _Mind? Hells, Sweetheart, I'm beggin' you to. Never seen anyone get et like you._

 _Except me,_ Luke said. Not in competition with Leia, he was as relieved as Han that she'd seen reason. Her attack was much, much worse. Yet Luke remained stuck on it, their attractiveness to insects, their physical reaction to what was, to everyone else, minor affliction. Another commonality in a growing series he was never sure Leia noticed, and would sound insane if spoken but—felt significant to Luke. Like how they were both great mimics. How they'd sat together just now in perfect unison, like obedient students, and—

 _Yeah, but,_ Han said, selecting a wrench. _Eatin'_ you _makes sense._

 _Wait, what?_ Luke spluttered. _How's that?_

 _You're from the desert! Raised on what, cup of water a week?_ _Your blood's probably real dense. Like that, y'know, ration paste they feed you in medbays_.

Luke and Leia exchanged a look with top notes of confusion, amusement and revulsion.

 _Please. When have you ever agreed to go to the medbay?_ Leia asked. Intrigue peeking through the worldly dismissal.

 _Didn't say_ this _medbay._ Han frowned at an empty bolthole where fanblades met their shaft. _Didn't say agreed._

 _But Leia's blood is royal,_ Luke said, with a fraternal tap to her inner arm. _Rare stuff._

 _Not_ my _blood._ Leia's tone was so tart it almost hid the old hurt. _According to my critics in the press._

 _'Course the biteys like Leia best,_ Han said, slipping a bolt from a loop on his belt. _But not 'cos of nutrition._

He spoke as though to Luke, but when he looked over his broad bare shoulder it was right at Leia, the bolt clamped in his teeth. Leia, no slouch, waited Han out. Han looked away first, small smile flitting about his lips to show it wasn't in defeat. Slipped the bolt from his mouth, left arm flexing as he lifted one plate to fit the piece into its slot.

 _Fine._ Leia cracked, at last, voice arch but her stare fixed to the moving planes flanking Han's spine. _Why is that?_

 _Princess. You gotta ask?_ Han looked back at Leia, eyes incandescent, grin indiscreet. _'Cos you taste so nice._ Holding her stare, hefit his fingers to the bolt and twisted.

Luke tented a hand over his face, not out of modesty but good old exasperation. Leia, too, scoffed at this corny trap, unsellable by anyone else. But Han _was_ Han, Han wore his nerve like mating plumage, and Luke suspected that Han alluded to some happy pact. At least judging from the glow in his eyes, from the way Leia's lips turned up and her skin flushed, delicate pink separate from the damage.

With a meaningful flick of lashes in Han's direction, Leia went back to the game; still grinning, Han to his job. Tightening the bolt, slow as so not to slip his grasp on the hilt of the wrench. _Eizel,_ he said, low in his throat.

And on a hunch Luke asked Leia what _eizel_ meant. He had no reason to think she'd know, yet Luke knew she would, all at once he understood that she'd been studying the dialect since they got back from Coronet. When Leia finally answered, her eyes were back on Han: sweat-slick in the heat, speaking in gritty, coaxing tongue as he worked his weight against metal.

 _Easy,_ Leia sighed, so hazy it made Luke fondly roll his own eyes. _It means...easy._

 _Bye now,_ Luke said back.

XXXXXXXXX

 _Easy._ Prixati had asked it of Wedge as a slangy question: _easy, Antilles?_ As in, everything all right?

So he must feel it, Luke concluded, the tension lapping at the jocular island of this round table, one of many populated with sundry Rogues and Rebels. Or. Prixati wanted to feed it. Spark miniature Corellian civil war.

Good luck with that. Not even the woman Han loved had got him to enlist in the actual macro version.

Yet Luke wondered: how did hearing _Olys_ from Prixati strike Han? As theft, Luke guessed. Mockery. Or maybe not. Maybe Han didn't care one whit. Maybe it was Luke, rankled on his friend's behalf. Always bothered by these kind of tricks, the hostilities you couldn't defend against without self-entrapment. A Jundland Wastes tar-pit, dragging you farther down the more you tried to escape it. Or tried to explain it, or count on all beings to be decent.

Luke watched Rell handle his plastisteel cutlery. Such precision seemed rebuttal to Han's jittery tapping of teaspoon against his thigh.

 _Fine! I dislike Prixati Rell!_ Luke mentally challenged his mentor. _Dis-liiiiiiike!_ He threw in some peppy hands fit for the Max Rebo Band. _What of it, Kenobi?_ _Like_ you _were a big fan of Han—_

"Solo!" Janson broke in, collapsing to a seat across from the man himself, mouth stuffed with pikanut muffin. "What are you doin' back?"

This was bait, too, but from Janson, it wasn't hidden. He dangled the question like a wriggling p'wrink worm. Not malicious, just a brash attempt to trap Solo on the record, pretty up the over/under on his base wager.

Han gave an exquisitely uncommitted hitch of shoulder. But his eyes, keen under their awnings, trawled the briefing hall over and over. Through all the milling beings laughing, talking, availing themselves of the buffet. None of them the person Han sought.

"Won't lie, man," Janson went on. "Few guys said you'd quit this gig."

"You," Hobbie pointed his knife at Janson. " _You_ said. Only because,"

"Quit? Naaaah." Han flipped his teaspoon and caught it. "Bread and honey."

The comment was vintage Solo, one that used to infuriate the Rogues to discussion, and none of them gossips (except Wes). They all knew the unspoken prefix of the rhyming spacer maxim: _easy money_. But it was usually said in convivial shanty celebration, good times for all. Han's curt delivery was about as collective and cheery as a barbed-wire fence.

 _Han misses no chance,_ Luke once said over the corpse of their sabacc hopes—in a mood, Han had left them all not merely beat, but broke— _to remind you he's not really heroic._

 _Solo misses no chance,_ Wedge rejoined, _to remind you he's not really_ here.

But today Han's inflection was different. Not ruthless, anymore, but...rote. Like _Bread and Honey_ was his trademark hit song, shorn of verve by too many performances. If Han's words lacked energy, though, his searching eyes brimmed with it, moving face to face with such eagerness that Luke smiled into his tumbler of water.

Prixati Rell did not smile. Spearing a triangle of flatcake with his fork, he said something under his breath, something in Corellian. Before Luke could pay this notice, a familiar roar broke the cold of the briefing hall. Heads turned towards the beings queueing at the buffet—towering over all of them, Chewbacca. Balancing three heaped plates up the length of one hairy arm, waving the other at the serving droid in _keep 'em coming_ fashion.

Luke laughed out loud at this first sight of the much-missed Chewie.

"He's a character." Prixati's cultured tenor was smooth as ever, the statement innocuous, on its surface. Yet something in it: a fine, sly probe, seeking out allegiances.

"He's my friend," Luke said, just as evenly.

The tall blond pilot arched flaxen brows. Just enough to hint, before Luke embarrassed himself with sentiment, that Chewie was at best a pet. On Hoth merely to bound through the snow with a thermoflask of whiskey-laced kaffe at his neck, rescuing the lost from certain death.

Luke opened his mouth, then shut it. He felt strangely complicit, even though there was no way to confront an expression.

A seething rose in his throat. Last week, when Prixati worked KP, he'd thrown out Luke's powdered blue milk. True, no one else liked the cheap chemical stuff; even Luke preferred the rarer canned. _But._ The substitute was an indulgence on this frozen planet, a taste of Tatooine, which if not ever quite his home, had been Luke's place until he was nineteen. On top of that, it was Han who'd picked it up on some run, shocking Luke by charging only gentle ribbing about _dyed sand._ Luke brought the can all the way from Yavin, and Prixati just... _tossed_ it. Opened it and shook it down the sink like it was stimdust. _What is this, an intervention?_ Janson had demanded.

When Luke protested, Prixati was waiting. Luke couldn't shake the feeling that the other blond had been _waiting,_ that he'd done it in order to invite Luke onto The Customclass. Prixati always called it that, _The Customclass,_ heavy with chummy corrective emphasis. The same way he referred to Leia, actually,like everyone who used her name _at her own request_ was a classless boob needing his guidance.

So in front of everyone in the mess, Prixati invited Luke aboard _The! Customclass!_ (or, as Han once called it, _that_ _gold-plate cock hangup)_ for kaffe with real Panuliin cream. _I don't want Panuliin cream!_ Luke wanted to scream, though of course he couldn'tlest he get a reputation as the diva of Yavin who'd have his blue-flavored kaffe or else.

Between Luke and Prixati, a kaffe mug rattled against a drinking glass. Just a bit, like chattering teeth. No one else noticed, but it broke Luke's dangerous focus. He closed his eyes, took a breath. Centered himself in the present, and—

A panel hissed open, somewhere in the wall of ice. The air in the hall shivered as though with a struck bell. Murmurs of awe, a gasped title from Rell. Opening his eyes, Luke was surprised to see that indeed, Prixati's address had been accurate.

A woman stood on the raised dais at the head of the hall, with the members of High Command. She stood in a white dress, wool high at the neck and tight to her wrists, hands laced at her narrow waist. Her hair was bound with metallic cord that glittered like frost in the deep brown twists. Her face was perfect and set as carved stone.

She was not Leia. Not as Luke knew her, freckled, laughing; philosophy-swapping; dropping him on his ass in combat training.

It was a casual event, Leia had told Luke yesterday, as they ran fight sims. A relaxed breakfast, an informal briefing, a small thanks for everyone's dedication. In fact, she and Jan Dodonna were paired to run the flatcake station! _Hope I won't drown him in batter,_ Leia'd muttered as she methodically blasted TIE after TIE.

But Leia hadn't said anything about becoming Her. _Her_ —the first time she'd said it, it hurt Luke's soul. To think of Leia splitting, as a girl, into two selves; one to keep private, one for All Worlds. Luke had never asked how Leia felt about it. A double life, or maybe more—though to be sure she made it work for the Rebellion for a long time, a spy hiding in a blind of The Princess. But today Luke felt it off her, all the way from the dais; a contained frustration. Even...rage.

Something had changed backstage.

XXXXXXXXX

The Princess didn't have to ask for everyone's attention; she commanded it with her presence. She _did_ request it, because she was gracious. And then she said that intelligence had come in at dawn. A mission to secure a cache of explosive plasma had failed. The agent executed.

"Where?" Someone shouted. Always someone rude like that, trampling over the speaker and the fallen alike. But Princess Leia was unflappable.

"In a stall-market." She looked to Carlist Rieekan, who looked sick. "On Korsktt 6."

The mood in the room skewed, all at once, from optimistic to grave. Korsktt 6 was a mining world at farthest Outer Rim. Supposedly no Empire presence there at all, but it was riddled with corruption.

Han Solo leaned forward into Luke's field of vision. No longer slouching, he rested his elbows on the table, on either side of his plate. Yes, Han had a plate, like everyone else, though the single slice of toast it held spoke more of camouflage than genuine hunger. Or perhaps pride. Or—

Luke flashed to a past scene. The mess on Yavin; Han sitting at a small table alone, Leia waiting on line, pushing her tray along the grate. Biting her cheek at Han waving a piece of limp white toast at her like a handkerchief, his smile ecstatic as a traveler bidding goodbye from the deck of a sedate starcruiser. Over the course of Leia's wait, Han used the bread to blot his brow, to hide coyly behind, to take notes, to scrub the table. He tossed it like a flag of surrender. Leia resolutely ignoring him all the while, but her eyes smiling. Finally Han got down on his hands and knees and pretended to tile the floor with the square of white. It was Han's utterly committed acting that cracked her—the measuring, the turning, the grouting and setting, the speculative standing and chin-stroking and stepping back to study—and Leia didn't see it with her helpless giggles turned into her shoulder, but the look on Han's face to have made her laugh? So soft and radiant, like she'd just agreed to marry him.

But this was Hoth, and this was not drowsy Leia with her datapad and oatmeal. Luke watched the Han of Hoth nudge the plate with its hopeful prop away. Lean his weight on his elbows, press his lips to his nested fists in concentration.

"High Command," the Princess continued. She swallowed, a rare pause. "Requests an immediate volunteer pilot to collect—"

"Not a volunteer," Jan Dodonna interjected, stepping forward.

Leia—yes, this was Leia, now—strafed Dodonna with a look of pure acid. In it Luke read the whole story, and her whole threat: _you send me to sanctify news like this, you get out of my way._

"A volunteer," Leia insisted. In her voice that ringing call and all faces followed it, like flowers turned to sun. Luke felt that thrill he always did, just to know her. "It is immoral to impose—"

Dodonna shook his head, impatient. "High Command," he said, "announces a change of policy—"

Mon Mothma shook her head furiously. "Jan! That was never agreed upon."

If the air shivered before, now it froze solid. The Alliance audience sat like horrified children, stunned not by everpresent danger but by open conflict of the authority they counted on to guide them.

"A change to our rules on unlisted personnel!" Dodonna near-yelled over Mothma, as though speed and volume made his word irrevocable. In a way it did, Luke knew. His version was out, now, in the room. For some, that was good as truth.

Carlist Rieekan threw up his hands. Leia stood blanched with fury, her eyes aflame and her fists clenched at her hips.

"All unlisted personnel," Dodonna said, "Will accept commissions as assigned..."

Han Solo stood up, slow and even. His eyes narrow and green as laser beams.

"...or leave Echo Base. The commission is a meeting on Korsktt 6."

"We gonna pretend he's talkin' to anyone else?" Han asked the silent room, opening his arms.

Onstage, Leia looked like she was...being tortured, Luke thought. Or watching Han be tortured. Like she was locked in herself, too far from her mouth. Desperate to stop it, Luke opened _his_ mouth to speak it. _I'll go._ Something stronger than himself held it back; perhaps it was that for Leia, too. Luke felt faint with portent, fate. Not just today: he'd been dreaming, on and off since arriving on Hoth, of endless black sea. In it, icebergs, the hard white of stormtroopers. Glinting tops hinting at menace beneath.

From there it all happened very fast.

"The commission," Dodonna repeated, "is—"

"That's no commission," Han spat. " _Uranium jam?_ That's a suicide rap."

 _Coward,_ someone hissed, in the crowd.

"It's not that Han _won't_ go," Janson defended.

"Oh, I won't," Han said.

"Look." Wedge hesitated, then nodded, practical son of a gasclerk. "Do we have the cash for this? Up front?"

Dodonna glowered. "That is—"

"No," Leia said. "No, the credits were not recovered. They were stripped from the operative. In the marketplace." She raised her chin. "And we lack sufficient funds, at the moment, to make up the difference."

The crowd rabbled. Knew things were tighter on Hoth than they'd been on Yavin in the aftermath of the Death Star, donations pouring in from an exhilarated galaxy. But this—

"That's just it," Han said it very seriously to Leia, and no one else in that vast crowded space. "These big boys. Glowboys. They don't take checks, Princ—"

"Don't call her that," said Prixati Rell.

Hush seized the hall. Even the icy walls seemed to reflect it, the flash of interest. An intake of breath, drawn and held in a unison that vibrated Luke's sensitivities, developing by the second.

The swivel of Han's shaggy head was so calm it was a kind of threat.

"See here, man," Rell began, in his manor-born accent.

"How'd you wanna do this, Rell?" Han asked, very softly. "Duel at dawn?"

Rell's fine lips trembled. Luke could see the young boy he had been. Spoiled, but a genuine stubbornness there. "I don't mean offense, Captain Solo."

"Death by snifter?"

"Please," Rell said, stiffly. "I simply object to you—"

"Han," Wedge said.

"No, no, no, no," Solo said. _"Nyet."_ He made his hand a blade. "What you know about me, Rell, is flat sum zero."

Prixati looked down at the table, square jaw working. "I know you profit off her cause. You have no right to address—"

Han almost swayed, riled as a filisk viper. "Who you callin' a parasite, _Shaughsk."_ His Estok accent suddenly very thick. "You're a boneworm. Herebecauseyou're a boneworm, you know it, and you wanna little... _ehat?_ Marrow. Atonement."

"I know you took a reward," Prixati blurted, on the verge of tears. "For saving her." And there was a certain staunchness to him, even as his voice shook. Han Solo was an intimidating man and Rell stepped toward him. "You took her reward, and her medal, and now you mean to take—"

The air in the room compressed flat. Han went white except for two hectic patches high on his cheeks. For all his irascibility Luke realized he'd never seen Han enraged before. He was stark with it, eyes wide, almost starved. Right hand quivering at his thigh, left constricting into a fist. He was going to shoot him, or hit him. Luke could feel it, even see it, and—

Luke watched the set of Han's broad shoulders shift. His back made, of his navy spacer's jacket, a screen upon which Luke helplessly projected intuition. And Luke didn't want to be a Force mystic, not at the moment. Didn't want to break the Unspoken Rule of Unspeaking, didn't want to betray his dear friend's secret. Luke did not want to be a Jedi, not a magic sunshine pilot, not an oracle or even particularly nice. He wanted to eat breakfast. He wanted a nap.

 _Today. Leia will know_.

Life was life. Luke had no choice.

"Leia." Luke's voice was steady, but what it carried around the hall came as much a shock to him as everyone else. "Leia. Han gave it back."


	6. Han Solo 1

When Han Solo hoisted his reward, he nearly staggered. Not under the strongbox itself, but what its weight represented. Enough to pay Jabba off, bit left over if Han played it right. Maybe, if he scrimped, enough to apply for an interstellar shipper's ticket and—

Rebels filed toward him, one after another. Each of them bearing their own locker.

 _Man alive._ Shrike's pet phrase came unbidden to Han's mind. Shrike, napkin tucked into his uniform jacket, those fake fucking medals. Sawing into Traladon steak as he gloated over boosted jewels. _Man a'livin._

That meant what young Han brought in was enough to satisfy the boss. Some nights, the bad nights, it was not, and anything set the prick off. Slaps, boots, fists; Han learned to approach Shrike wearing a protective vacancy. This served Han well at sabacc, and now it hid his shock as he tracked soldier after soldier, box upon box. But behind his mask, Han's rush was almost sickening. Like an Estok wives' tale come true: Raahl, goddess of money, of luck, blessing the deserving and evil alike. Ah, Raahl, revealing herself to him at last, clothed only in her coins of light.

Hells, maybe it was like sex. His first time at least, belly hollow with disbelief and eagerness.

But Han's plans were in rapid process without him, and he abandoned past and superstition to run them down. One crate erased Jabba's headprice. Two? Shipper's license, no sweat. Three would get the _Falcon_ up to inspection spec; four meant he could set up legit shop. Five. Six, seven, no more hustling spice. No more disgust, with himself and most who hired him. No more—

Luke Skywalker bounced up to Han in his orange flight-suit. Nice kid, if so green that this futile mission was romantic to him. Problem was, Luke believed the same was true for Han, too. Band of brothers and all that, bonded in their very fiber by the trash compactor. Han knew the merciful thing to do was pierce the kid's delusion, yet couldn't muster the necessary barb. But then Luke clocked the boxes stacked around the _Falcon,_ andit turned out Han didn't need to say anything at all.

"So." Something was on fire in the blue sky of Luke's eyes. "You got your reward and you're just leaving, then?"

 _...yeah,_ Han thought. _That's the math, alright._

Han didn't think this scornfully. Maybe the money had begun to work its magic, made Han magnanimous, allowed him some memory of what it was like, to lose illusions. But that was where any empathetic alchemy stopped. Han couldn't become someone he was not. No hero. No fool either. Han couldn't be the type of brother Luke wanted, but maybe he could be another so Han broke it to Luke like that, straight talk. Used big-boy words like _debt_. Like _suicide_. Even surprised himself, pitching Luke a shipboard job.

Now, Han didn't stroll around handing out gigs,especially to wetfarmers never heard of the _Millennium Falcon._ Breaking out of the Death Star was a solid audition, though. Luke was gutsy, smart, he could make good crew, that was all true. But as usual, Han discovered another motive slipped like a skifter in his sleeve. If anyone could convince the galaxy's scrappiest ex-captive to abdicate her death-wish and ride with them, it was Sunshine Boy; she'd liked Luke better.

Hadn't she?

Not that Han cared what some smart-mouthed, trigger-happy, big-eyed slip of a Princess liked. In fact, he was still reeling some from their introduction. Not because she was beautiful, though she was, that was obvious the moment he saw her. _So what,_ he'd thought, clacking along in his stolen armor. Prettiness came with the rich-girl kit, didn't it? Assigned her at birth, along with the iridium spoon in her mouth. What stunned Han was Leia Organa's attitude. Shit, no universal law made anyone do anything for anyone else, you'd think she'd show a little...look, Han didn't expect her life debt, and it was true that he was also promised cash. Still, a modest gratuity of her admiration wouldn't go amiss: poor little sheltered royal all locked up, and who rocks up to save her but a bloodstriped spacer. C'mon, blaster at his hip? Quick with the old smartass wit? Han Solo was one tall cool son of a bitch!

But when the Princess of Alderaan parted her red lips in Han's direction, it wasn't to thank him. It wasn't to weep her relief, or breathily confess that twelve parsecs was the sexiest record ever set. It was to tell him she made the rules. And hours later, on this doomed base, Han found himself mulling that over. Wee thing, where did she get the brass—

The storminess on Luke's face cleared: not to eager acceptance of Han's offer, but withering pity.

"All right. Well, take care of yourself, Han. I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?"

Some thanks for extending a helping hand! First it was that tiny tehk'la blade of a woman, paring Han clean to bone in his own cockpit. _That's what you'll receive._ Now this hick, out of his sandbox for what, six minutes, spitting disappointment from his Jedi pulpit. Han felt something fill his chest. A pressure where, usually, there was only reassuring emptiness. _Yes!_ Han wanted to howl at Luke's departing back. _I_ do _take care of myself. I_ am _the best._ Staying alive was a skill that deserved respect. This towhead was about to bust outta the game at what, nineteen? And he had the balls to feel sorry for _Han?_

Han would yell at Her Worship too, if she were here instead of hovering over her laser altar. He'd take her by those stiff white shoulders and shake her. _Listen. Listen to me._ Didn't she get it? The Imps built a planet that killed planets. Show's over Sweetheart! Bad guys won it! The only thing to do was run, and keep running. Fuck it, Han thought wildly, he should pull his blaster, stun them both. And when Luke and Leia woke on the _Falcon,_ hauling blue ass out of the Certain Death System, he'd hit 'em with the Captain's manifest: there was no Force. No pacifism, no war. There was survival, and nothing else.

He'd apprentice them to selfishness.

But it was a spice-dream. That murderball was barrelling closer, and the Hero Twins hellbent on their noble trip. Han wasn't their captor, not their friend, yet it hurt to know it ended in their blunt extinction. No vengeance for the Princess, no adventure for the kid. _Oblivyn._ And that was it.

"Hey, Luke."

Luke turned. Face wary, but a mulish faith remained in his eyes.

"May the Force be with you."

The benign lie was all Han had left, if Luke wouldn't accept an escape route. But Luke didn't receive Han's statement as though he appreciated what it took, for a Corellian smuggler to offer that blessing straight. Luke looked at Han in a way Han never forgot. Like Han was some shakedown artist, name-checking the Force to extort Luke's forgiveness. A glare so penetrating Han almost closed his vest against it.

"Don't look at me like that," Han snarled over his shoulder at Chewie, instead of watching Luke walk away. He picked up a crate. "I know what I'm doin'."

 _Yes._ Chewie said. _You do._

Han wheeled on his first mate, features twisting into mocking attentiveness. Chewie saidnothing, just gazed down from the Tree of Patience or whatever, waiting for Han to scale his own moral failure.

"You know I ain't afraid of a fight, pal."

 _Not of a fight, no._

"Not nothin'!"Han inwardly winced as he said it, he sounded so sullen and adolescent. "You heard me, suicide ain't—"

Abruptly, Han saw himself from outside. A tall man of indeterminate age, clutching a box to his chest: evidence of a hand at work in the universe after all. A power of balance, of fairness, of...of reparation. And Han _was_ afraid, to realize he was starting to believe in—see, this was how fate took you for a sucker! If he didn't get off Martyr Moon right now, he'd live exactly long enough to see that that cosmic hand shoot him the finger.

Han flicked a skittish look at Chewie. "You just gonna stand there?"

 _I was permitting you time to replot your course._

"Permi—" Han banged his crate onto another. "Kreth, can't you be cool? Glad it worked out, for once?"

Slowly shaking his giant head, Chewie took a box under an arm.

"Y'know what, Chewie?"Han fought to rid his voice of both wheedling and fury. "Not all of us got that choice. Not all of us—"

 _Us, you say? Forgive my Basic,_ Chewie said. _Us...as in a collective. Yes? A unified group,_

"I! _Mi!"_ Han gouged his own chest with a long thumb. Hitcher's thumb, Shrike used to call it. Sign of the born pickpocket. "Got no time for some blue-milk-fed kid who—"

 _It is not Luke you have looted._

"Ain't gonna baby no blue- _blood,_ neither!"

 _The_ _Princess lost her family, people, and planet in one instant_. _Yet she rises to fight._ Chewie'slips peeled from his fangs. _Does that tint her blood a more worthy color, on your black market?_

Han yelled it:"Leia Organa could rise from a fuckin' supernova, I'd—"

He bit his tongue too late; a pilot prepping his X-wingraised black brows in Han's direction. A look so drylysurprised he had to be Corellian, familiar with Corellian legends. Like the one Han had just invoked, for some bizarre reason.

Chewie's furred frown softened at the same allusion. _A_ _new frond,_ he began, placing a paw on Han's shoulder _. Must—_

"Hey. I got mine." With a furious grin, Han twitched off the leathery palm. "You always been free, take your cut—"He jerked his chin at the skyline of boxes."—go back to your forest, if you miss it so much."

Chewbacca drew himself upright. _It is in the preciousness of all I miss,_ he said stiffly, _that I honor my debt to you._

"Suit yourself." Hoisting his crate,Han turned on his heel. "Job's over."

Han kept his face blank as he carried that first crate up the ramp. His brain explaining all the way that this was back payment due him for all he'd survived. And survivors set their own ruthless course. If seizing his chance meant Han had to wound Chewie, or abandon Luke—if it meant leaving some infuriating girl to be consumed by her burning world—

Stumbling, Han caught himself at the lip of the hatch. That giddy dizziness was back. It was excitement, wasn't it? Turning a little sour, maybe, but so had his first trip through a woman's bed, and that hadn't kept Han out of others. The goddess of love, born alive from stellar fire, the poets could keep her. Han wanted only Raahl, he could see her now, taking his measure. Beckoning him into his future. And when Han Solo stepped over the _Falcon_ 's threshold toward her, the box he cradled wasn't the weight of a princess' life, but the worth and vindication of his own. The vault in his chest filling at last: with wealth, with himself.

No room left for anything else.

XXXXXXXXX

Yeah, yeah. He came back. Famous last, and all that.

Han wasn't going to stay, though. Didn't even stay long at the raging...celebration? Wake? Exorcism? after. He leaned at the top of the _Falcon_ 's ramp, arms folded, scanning the teeming hangar. Couldn't miss Luke at crowd-center, hair doused in drink, hoisted toward the rafters; blushing, laughing, little weepy maybe, but still alive so Junior was on his own. Han looked for the Princess. If Luke was crying with the comedown, Chewie long abed and Han slouching with fatigue, how was _Leia?_ Out there somewhere grieving, and Han felt oddly responsible for it. Like he'd saved her and sentenced her to it. But she was nowhere to be seen. Which was for the best, Han guessed, because tea and sympathy wasn't his strong suit. Anyway, he'd done his bit.

In Han went. Brought up the ramp. Locked and double-checked the hatch. He was exhausted, yet found himself not in his cabin but the darkened second hold, plunking himself on a rations crate. Han had a hard-fast rule of never impairing himself in public or with anyone he didn't trust, which meant that the rare instances he got drunk, it was on his ship with a two-hundred-year-old Wook. So Han hadn't lived it up with everyone in the hangar, tripping on fermented heroism or whatever.

But blessedly alone, Han opened the Whyren's he kept stashed for special occasions. The first drink just a sip as Han he stretched his legs, propped them on another box. The second, a belt for delayed shock because he'd tangled with Vader and sweet holy fuck. The third a wry toast to the womp rats turned a farmboy into a full-on sniper pilot.

The fourth drink was a long, rolling swallow. Slow, savouring and thoughtful. Today he'd held a Princess in his arms not once but twice, and even though a guy like him...well, she sure felt nice. And the fifth—the fifth drink Han denied himself. Grimacing, he set the bottle aside. _Solo, you damn Gamorrean._ Alderaan gone, and he was replaying Leia's arms around his waist, her rosy face pressed to his chest.

Getting to his feet, Han walked to the half of the hold that held his reward. He broke the seal on a strongbox, ingots winking blue in the running lights. Han couldn't stop stroking his thumb over embossed denominations. All awed and grateful, like...Han snorted uncomfortably. Like he was in that schmaltzy holoromance, that one Chewie liked—the two of them went through lots of flicks those long hours at hyper. When Han dared mock the climactic smooch, Chewie growled, _There are no kisses in your detergent opera?_ That was different, Han bellowed. _Hazard the Stars_ was a Corellian classic! It had _assassinations!_

When Han finally climbed into his bunk after a 'fresher, he was good and beat. Everything hurt, but he almost luxuriated in his bruises and aches, like he'd paid a necessary tax on his cash. And as he fell profoundly asleep, Han decided that was why he'd come back.

XXXXXXXXX

The visit to the second hold became Han's nightly habit. After checking system readouts in the cockpit, he'd sit and look over the proof of his future, even as he couldn't seem to take off into it. Days after the Death Star, the _Falcon_ was stillon Yavin IV. Somehow Han felt grounded—not by High Command, which Han afforded little weight, but some unfathomable act of nature.

Cyclone Organa. Hurricane Leia.

Goddamn, she drove Han up the durasteel walls. Publicly shredded Han's ass when he offered her the chance to develop that crush on him after all. The Princess was so effortlessly scathing Han contemplated suing her for trademark violation: _h_ _e_ was the one who got to be sarcastic and unimpressed! Leia was raised in a palace, she had no right to—listen, she could at least agree to be an imperious snot. Delegate her boot-polishing, demand the crusts cut off her rations. This would reassure Han that life remained in what he understood as order.

 _But Leia_ _refused to observe the rules._

She was unpretentious, fair, and hardworking. Shielded with most, but always polite. Truly warm with Luke, Chewie. Turned out Princess Leia of Alderaan was perfectly lovely to everyone who wasn't Captain of the _Millennium Falcon._

She'd avoided Han since the post-ceremony mixer. They'd been having a nice enough conversation, and—anyway, it rankled didn't expect bombardment with hugs and medals, but he'd reckoned it settled, her Highness thought he was alright and hells, she better! Hadn't he kept her from drowning in garbage water? Shot Vader's creepy bat-fighter to save her?

No, Han hadn't enlisted at the mixer, big deal. Neither had Chewie, yet Leia apologized to him for the walking carpet thing, made sure the furball got toiletries from the commissary. Won over by a bottle of conditioner, the traitor. Okay, maybe Han didn't _have_ to tell her that he'd never be her pet soldier. Leia blinked, then crisply thanked him for his candor and glided away across the Great Temple, gown drifting behind her.

He couldn't've _hurt_ her, Han wondered later, in his second hold, sorting his hoard by value. Naaah, that girl was hard as brassvine thorns. But he could've been nicer. Maybe he'd bump into Leia and...well, not apologize, because he wasn't sorry. Ever. He'd come up with something offhand before he beat it back to Jabba, let her know it wasn't personal. He wasn't a joiner.

Thing was, how to approach her? She was like cargo in a locked, scan-proof case. Leia was risky. Leia was opaque.

Struck, Han sat back on his haunches before the open boxes. That was it, the gravity well that held him at Yavin. It wasn't that he wanted Leia's approval—stars knew he'd never cared about that before—it was the mystery of her. But Han was a smuggler, flown from one side of the galaxy to the other. Moved everything from bantha bile to baby bottles, after awhile it all became routine. He'd met countless beings, dumb and clever, brave and scaredy, decent and evil. Most everyone occupied the degrees in between.

 _Nothing,_ and _no one,_ was interesting as Han was imagining Leia Organa to be.

There were Dac-lobsters in the deep-freeze. Han had been saving them for when he and Chewie left Jabba's palace for the last time, little feast to celebrate their good fortune. But he'd sacrifice the crawlers to get a bead on Leia. Chewie loved to cook, was always complaining that Han didn't let him feed him enough. They had good whiskey, bread, real butter...

Next day Han, charged with the confidence of a born safecracker, walked up to Leia and Luke, invited them to supper. Luke supplied the ready _yes_ Han had counted on, and then Leia accepted, if with a suspicious graciousness. But wary or not she showed up at the _Falcon_ alone, bang on time, the kid always a tick late. No necklace or fancy dress, just pinned braids, white blouse, belted fatigue trousers rolled at the cuffs. Loose sandals buckled precariously at her ankles; so, she could handle a blaster, but she'd never been through formal military inspection. This intel didn't give Han the expected satisfaction. If Leia had to run, which was inevitable—sooner or later the base would wake to the cheery warbling of AT-AT walkers—and in jungle terrain—

The impulse to lecture her fell itchily close to protectiveness. Han was about to dispel it in sardonic welcome— _glad you came, Your Highness, got a ribbon needs snipping_ —when Leia opened the satchel slung over her shoulder. There was solemnity to the swift duck of Leia's head as she held a potted plant out to him, her red lips shaping some sibilant phrase.

"Oh hey." Han's hand stole to the back of his head. Feeling juice from the Roonan lemon he'd been slicing for Chewie gum up his hair, he dropped his arm to his hip. "You didn't hafta,"

"I do have to."Firmly Leia met his eyes. "The host's blessing is a custom of—"Her fine jaw tensed, pain wrestling determination. "My custom."

 _My._ Even a jaded star-jockey, accustomed to his own companionship, paused before the loneliness of that. For all his curiosity, Han turned his head from Leia then, hollering at Chewie in the galley that they had company. Weren't gallantry. His mission was reconnaissance, not voyeurism. Still, Han was glad he hadn't had time to tease her about ornamental scissors.

"Well uh. Thanks." Han reached for the gift. After a beat he timed on instinct, he put challenge into his grin. "There a farmer's market on-base, Your Highness?"

Leia's big eyes flashed, sadness overtaken with pugnacious poise. "A perk reserved for the enlisted, Captain Solo."

 _Atta girl,_ Han thought. With a calloused finger he prodded a coral filament on the...flower? in his left hand. Then he looked closer. The plant, packed in moist earth and moss, nestled in a squat, dented cylinder.

Han peered sharply at her. "You cut this?"

"By the creek." Leia nodded. "It's loishbalm. The petals—"

" _This."_ Han lifted the makeshift container. "This is cut from a hydraulic sleeve."

"Oh. Yes."Colour stole into Leia's cheeks. "Amateurish, I'm afraid." She gave a short laugh, and in it Han heard impatience with anything she didn't immediately master. "Trying to teach myself on scrap."

And she moved to the cooker to greet Chewie, who gestured proudly at his glossy pelt, scented with mysess blossom from the shampoo issued to him. Leaving Han staring, gobsmacked, after her slender, erect back.

Going by Han's initial plan, supper was a disaster. Far from allowing Han to classify and dismiss the Princess, the information he gathered intrigued him further. Leia's wit was quick and sharp as a shockwhip. She drank whiskey without ice. She ate with her fingers—apparently royal etiquette obeyed that of pier cantinas when it came to lobster—pleasing Chewie with her gusto. She'd travelled extensively and asked insightful questions, listened with chin on her hand and her eyes on Han's mouth. Her laugh was so big and deep it stopped Han short, like the first time he saw a star go super.

Leia didn't mention the Rebellion once.

Could be due to his abruptness with the subject. Could be her good breeding, she was in his home, too well-mannered to overload the relaxed night. Like the guidelines printed on the _Falcon'_ s capacity plate: do not go beyond this weight. Or Leia plain wanted respite, stars knew she'd earned it. That felt right, he could tell she was enjoying herself, and Han was surprised at his own enjoyment. The amount he spoke, told, openly laughed. The genuine interest he took in Leia's stories. The filling and refilling of his own glass.

Chewie went to bed after supper, as was his habit. Meanwhile, Luke didn't say much, between Han and Leia on the acceleration couch. Didn't touch his lobster and he was pouring drink into an empty stomach, he'd pay for that later. Han tried to top him off with bread, absorptive, give him the hint without coming off too big-brother. As for banter, Luke made an excellent moisture farmer. Hell, Han liked Luke, he hadn't planned to exclude him, but he _was_ Han Solo and tonight, the commodity was Leia's attention. If Han didn't leverage this situation to his advantage, someone would check him for Veizen fever.

Han walked the pair to the hatch, after. Leaned there watching them traverse the ramp, Luke weaving, Leia coping with her ill-fitting Alliance footwear. Maybe _not_ Alliance-issue, Han thought with a sudden pang. Maybe scrounged up because Leia had nothing else, and wouldn't ask. Stubbornness, dignity, it occurred to Han then, were qualities he'd gladly share with anyone. Princess, Wookiee, Junior. Whoever.

"Hey Princess."

Leia looked back over her shoulder.

Han held up the plant he'd inexplicably carried, like some pet, to see Leia off. "This for cooking?"

She had excellent composure, Han had to give that to her. All that royal, diplomatic, senator training. But in Leia's lips, naked pink, cosmetic armour left on his favourite tumbler, Han read amusement. Have to work on that, if she actually wanted to learn sabacc like she claimed. If she hadn't been stroking his pride, luring him like a loth-cat into a collar.

"Loishbalm," Leia said, eyes flicking almost imperceptibly to Han's chin, "is for wounds."

 _Ah._ So the Princess was doing a little recon herself.

Guests gone, Chewie snoring in his cabin, Han went to the second hold to gloat. But that night was different, and not only because Han had flouted his edict of sobriety with strangers. "Hey, my ship. I make 'em, I break 'em," Han muttered to some unseen authority. Anyway, he wasn't sloshed. Just lit enough to find himself introducing his plant to his money.

Han contemplated the steel pot cradled in his laced fingers. So Leia wasn't just smart, witty, and tough. Fun to have a few drinks with, run your mouth. Sweet on the eyes, that wasn't enough? Oh no, Little Princess Green-Thumb Trigger-Finger was learning to use a monofusion welder!

"Wonderful,"Han huffed.

But the word came hollow, like he was performing exasperation. Han didn't feel, running his thumb over the stainless rim, ragged but not bad for a beginner, the expected proprietary outrage. He felt...definitely not a strange gentle pleasure. No urge to teach her his secret grip that smoothed through the grooves and pits.


	7. Han Solo 2

Couple months in, a recent recruit joined Janson's card night. Rule was, new blood got to pick the game, with the unspoken expectation that it be some form of sabacc. So far the players, beings from all galactic corners, got it without being told: if they were up to fighting the Emperor, they were up for the big show.

Prixati Rell chose planetary poker.

Made Han irritable, but then, he already was. Summer on this swamp-globe, and the hangar so humid it was like breathing steam. The bay doors were retracted into the rafters to admit heavy jungle air and through them came teasing rumbles of thunder. Everyone was wilted, hoping for rain; last few days Chewie had to stay inside the _Falcon_ to avoid heat exhaustion. Han himself had half-considered enlistment just to be issued a pair of shorts, but he wasn't strapping his holster to his bare thigh. Whatever leeway Han now allowed himself about drinking with Leia and Luke, he would never relax on _blaster at all times outside my ship_. So Bloodstripes it was _._

Han's white shirt stuck to his back, cowlick darkened at the nape of his neck. Wanted to lodge some official complaint: sweat belonged in work, exercise or sex, it shouldn't just run off you for nothing. So there was that abrading his temper, plus Han disliked poker. Not enough action, the suits fixed. A face card stayed a face, number a number, then you sorted them and lied about their order. Bore.

And Han needed his attention occupied.

Recently he'd become aware that his curiosity, which usually wheeled to his interests, had flown from his control. As he plotted star-maps, watched instructional holos or an episode of his soap, read manuals, played sabacc against his datapad, counted and recounted his credits, he'd catch his imagination wending to Her Worship, no matter how sternly he called it home.

Like now. Instead of studying the faces of his opponents, Han was thinking of that bump in Leia's left wrist. She'd told them last week, cocooned all cute in her blanket—lately he kept his ship arctic, fuel costs be damned—that she broke it when she was fourteen. Fell out of a tree in her mother's garden.

 _Now before you think it,_ Leia said, eyes on her dejarik game with Chewie, _my parents didn't enforce_ every _resolution of the Elder Houses—_

 _You're kidding,_ Luke said guilelessly. _A rebel royal family?_

Han grinned at the servo motor in his fingers. Kid was coming along. Playfully Leia swatted Luke, pride in her folk apparent in it.

 _There were enough absurdities they_ did _insist on._ Leia said, longing, fondness and frustration all mixed together in her expression. _But they never—well, many children of that class, especially girls, are raised like fatted nerf. Not permitted to develop muscle._ Leia's lips twitched. _It interferes with all that...marketable softness._

 _Marketable?_ This time Luke was genuinely nonplussed. Not because he was naive but because, Han knew because he'd also spent time on Tatooine, Luke was picturing slavery.

 _Married off, kid,_ Han grunted. Then scowled at a gear, wondering why the notion of Leia in the classic monarchial situation—loveless union, heir and a spare produced from exactly two grim and dutiful sessions—bothered him. Because it was gross, that was why, Han reassured himself. It wasn't that it was _Leia._ It was that he was a principled guy.

Who left Rodian bounty hunters a smoking pile of green hide.

But hey, he could have a self-preservation instinct _and_ believe in freedom to marry, sleep with, who you wanted. Not that Han thought about marriage, ever. Or even sex, much, unless it was on immediate offer. Especially not Leia and sex in the same—

Han hissed a breath sharp enough that Luke looked at him strangely. Han knocked the servo with a knuckle, rolled his eyes like...machinery, right? Luke smiled serenely back, then returned his attention to Leia.

And Han returned to his thoughts.

Yeah, Han liked Leia a lot. Plus he had eyes, so...alright, since it no longer cost his pride to admit it, Leia was the most beautiful person Han had ever seen. It wasn't like _that,_ though, Han uneasily insisted against a weird fluttering in his gut. It wasn't lust; that took hold a little lower. No riddle to sexual attraction, either. Hey, getting laid was great, but so was a drink of water. So was a nap. None of it exactly complex, just animal fact.

Anyway, Han reminded himself, thumping a stuck piston with his finger, wouldn't matter if he did want to bunk her—not that he brought any pickup back to his ship, let alone his bunk, good way to get robbed in your sleep—Han had no delusions Leia'd be into _him._ Some spice runner, all scarred up and eight? Nine? Ten years older. Han probably looked like Kenobi to her.

 _I was encouraged to exercise,_ Leia continued, mercifully interrupting Han's ruminations _. I had a gymnastics tutor._ Her eyes were faraway. _Mama let me practise in her garden, but she told me to stay out of the blueblossom tree._

Chewie hoisted his mug in endorsement. _Mother's wisdom._ He sipped his horrendous bark-water. _Some boughs are too fragile to sustain acrobatic endeavour._

Leia beamed at Chewie to realize she understood. _So of course,_ Leia said, lashes flicking in Han's direction, _that was the tree I had to conquer._

 _Naaah, you?_ Han flashed her a grin. _You're the soul of obedience._

Tiny as she was, Leia made it almost across the high branch she was using as a balance-beam before it snapped. Down she crashed. Hit the ground with a nasty crack, and she knew what it was—her hand lolling—but no one was nearby. So Leia got to her feet, walked into the palace, to her chambers. Her parents were hosting the Hapan Royal Family. Banquet, ball. Leia came down to the dining hall on time, in full formal attire.

 _You got yourself into a ballgown with a broken wrist?_ Luke marvelled. _I broke mine, once. Could barely wind my legwraps._

 _And shoes. Tiara. Necklace._ _Hair combs. Had to be done._ Leia shrugged. _Codes of dress._

Han thought, and did not say, that at fourteen he'd handled his fair share of jewellery, too.

 _The Queen of Hapes had brought me a pair of iridium cuffs._

Han grimaced at the mental image of metal biting into swelling flesh. _Tell me you left one off._

 _Oh, no._ Leia smiled thinly.

 _Couldn't you play it as A Look?_ Luke said. _I mean, I think it would be cooler, just one—_

 _Yeah,_ Han said. _You're a public figure. Start a trend._

 _What it would have started,_ Leia said, _was an intergalactic incident._

She went in to dinner partnered with the Queen's heir, Kalen, her left arm held stiffly at her waist.

 _No one noticed?_ Luke cried.

 _You'd have to be familiar with the Hapan ceremonial promenade,_ Leia said. _It's..._ Her arms described a jerky Threepio thing that made Han snort. At dinner Leia kept her left arm in her lap, under the damask cloth, alarmed at how it had ballooned and darkened around the bracelet.

 _Good thing you're right-handed,_ Han said.

 _Quite,_ Leia said. _Except. Hapans eat the soup course with the left._

Han chuckled with her, same shared dark humour that let them joke about Imps together.

 _That was when your mother knew something was wrong._ Luke had that spooky sureness again, all past and future but never the winning lottery numbers.

 _...yes,_ Leia blinked at him.

Coming back to himself, Luke blushed. _You don't break the rules for fun, is all._

Leia nodded urgently. _I know the customs. I know the costs of flouting them. I would never cause—_ The main hold had taken on the air of a confessional. _When she saw me using my right,_ _Mama_ _leaned in and_ _asked me what was wrong. I lied to her face. She knew me, knew it was a lie but what could she do hosting a diplomatic dinner? I lied to her and Papa later, through my 'fresher door. Extorted their respect of my privacy, you see. The fact that I had become...fourteen._ Leia inhaled. _Lied next morning. Went riding with the Hapan party. Fainted, fell off my horse. Convenient excuse for my wrist._

 _Leia._ Luke breathed.

 _Pashi was a good boy,_ Leia said wistfully. _Never ratted me out._

 _You get the bone-knitter?_ Luke asked. _We didn't have one. I had a cast._ He grimaced. _Took a week's water._

 _Yes._ Leia flexed her left wrist, watched the pea-sized bump protrude. _But it was too late for a perfect set._

 _Forget the knitter,_ Han fairly howled. _Tell me when you got that bracelet off!_

 _Dawn,_ she said. _In the stables. Before we set out._

 _Dawn. You went the whole—dawn?!_ Han spluttered. _How—_

 _I may not be a gifted welder, Flyboy,_ _but I_ can _use macropliers._

 _Nine hells, Princess, that's not what I._ Han pushed back in the couch to glare down at her, nostrils flaring. _Coulda lost your hand!_

 _But I didn't,_ Leia snapped right back up at him. As if Han had gone too far in referencing her vulnerability when she wished to convey her capacity to withstand. Han stared at her, not sure if he admired or was angered by the savage ruthlessness Leia showed herself. Or if he recognized it from the battered face he met daily in the reflector.

Point made, or point scored, Leia turned back to her game. _Papa made me promise to never lie to them again,_ she said. _I still have trouble with it._

 _No, c'mon. No lying?_ Han shot back. Too heated, too fast, but Han felt powerless to stop his response, as though Leia's finality was some finger overlaid his on the trigger. He sing-songed a variation on the famous Basic nursery rhyme: _Princess Senator Rebel Spy?_

Luke looked at Han like _you want to_ _lay off_ and Chewie looked at Han like _you want your_ _arms torn off._ Han didn't know why he was doing it himself. But Leia didn't return fire; she faced Han again, with a level intensity that seared him silent.

 _I'm better at implication._ Leia's eyes searched Han's. _In any role, I'd rather persuade. Bald lying I avoid, unless it's a matter of what I most—_ She broke the look, toying with the table's controls. _I'm not sure if it's in their honour, or...I'm just terrible at it._

Something in Leia's voice defused Han at once. He'd once heard her mumble the name of a planet, in her sleep on this couch, under her blanket. And later that night, everyone gone, Han almost forgot to go to the hold. When he did he felt an antsy guilt, like a man sneaking into bed with his wife after visiting a mistress. There was a certain penance to his accounting.

 _It's on Dantooine._

Han's count faltered. He tried to start again but kept losing the amounts, the values. There had been a rhythm to it, before, something he could nearly hear. Something set to the reliable beat of his cool heart. But now Han saw, to his horror, that his treasure was yielding diminishing returns. Not merely according to his enjoyment, but economically: every second Han stayed at Yavin levied inflation on his takings.

Han sat starkly awake there that night, running merciless equations of time and denomination. If he didn't leave, _quick,_ he could forget about profit. Jabba ran murderous interest on his debts; Han's money would be spent, not on his ambition of going legit, but buying himself back from the Hutt.

Yet here it was, another week in, and he was kicking around base, taking Rieekan's milk runs. Easy money, yeah, no contract, no enlistment, strictly off the books, but not near enough to fat the kitty in his shipping hold. And his Bloodstriped ransomed ass was parked on a crate at the Rogues' card table. Not even playing for anything that could put his big dreams back in the black.

Planetary poker!

Han hadn't known Rell's name, when Antilles introduced his two fellow Corellians, seated next to each other. But Han knew the accent, the _affect,_ benevolently smug. He'd seen the Customclass all overdressed in a hangar full of beat-up fighters and freighters. Hard not to take it personal, this choice of game from the big blond Shaughsk. Popular not in cantinas or on rebel bases, but at the private parties of politicians and bankers.

Han could see in the baffled faces around the table that the game was unfamiliar to most the players.

Easy, but somehow too easy and this weren't the crowd to take _simple_ at face value. Everyone overthinking it, second-guessing, over- and underplaying their hands. Busting out, reading bluffs all wrong. Rell was doing well, small pleased smile. Sipping a spiced ale.

Whirring came from under the table. Han glanced down; a small droid tottered and flickered at his ankles. With a frosty gust, it extended a bottle to him.

 _A chilldroid?_ Han hadn't seen one since...shit, that ship-show on Serod. What was he, eighteen? When he'd slowed to check a Custom out—real ryshcate house of a thing. Looked candy-gilded. He'd almost squawked when its captain slid her hand into his back pocket.

 _Want to see one up close?_

It had been a bad night. Han was too young to handle his drink, too young to know not to get drunk with strangers. Or it was the absence of anyone to trust, or it was loneliness. Or maybe he was cold, and cute, and there was food. And when Han ended up in her bunk she'd bitten him to blood. But hey, it coulda been way worse. Signing up blind to a tumble was how a body got trafficked. At least now he knew to never go back to strange ships, even the rarest and most exclusive; sex was nothing to wake up enslaved in a stim-mine over.

"Help yourself," Rell said.

Han's mouth cramped. Not sure if he wanted the beer—long while since he'd had a real spiced ale—or the icy air, but he shook his head, waved off the droid instead of Rell. Trained his eyes on his useless cards. When Wedge accepted the drink Han felt an odd betrayal. Not like they were brothers, or even comrades. Antilles was a true believer. But to Han, accepting anything from a Shaughsk was such concession that he not only couldn't do it, he had to actively remind himself that Wedge had a right to his own codes.

"Thanks for nothing," Wedge said dryly, and folded, tossing his cards in genial disgust.

"Ach." Prixati clinked their bottles. "Chakta sai kae."

Rell's _Olys_ was shambling and unnatural as an animated corpse. Han's ire rose. Some heft, to talk rough while making everyone play his fancy game. Party game, parties Shrike used to send women to, sometimes, to dance. Send Han too, with a stunblaster to make sure no one got handsy. The ladies moved free among the players but might as well have been chained to Jabba for all the choice they had, for how much they got to keep of what they made. Shrike flipped a couple chips back to them later. Same amount went to Han, even at seventeen hadn't struck him fair because his clothes, no matter how ill-fitting, had stayed on. He'd wanted to give the money back to the women. But it's hard to be a hero when you're hungry, so he kept it. Bought a bowl of csolcir just like any other credits.

The rain burst with a crack and boom. Eyeing his cards, Han reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a peggat, and tossed it into the pot. Janson, the only other player still in, folded. Feeling Rell's eyes on him, Han let his lip curl. Funny story about those bigshot parties. Standing watchful at walls, Han had learned the rules of planetary poker. And he was going to gut this fucker like a—

Luke Skywalker bounded through the open hangar doors, shaking out his hair, rolled mats braced at his shoulder. He wore soaked combat trousers and compression shirt. "Got rained out!" Luke announced, like this was an especial treat. Maybe it was, for a being from Tattooine. "Will we disturb your game if we train here?"

"Depends, kid," Han called. "Who's _we?"_

Fair skin pearly with water, braids sending out wavy shoots all over, Leia strode in after Luke. She wore a synthflex top, strappy and cropped, and her tights followed everything from navel to calves. Her fists were wrapped. The staff Chewie carved for her was tied to her back.

It was only shock that stopped the groan Han would've succumbed to, were he alone.

"Naaah, go ahead," Janson said. "Just Solo and Rell still goin'."

Leia passed the card-table so close Han could smell her, salt-sweet with her own sweat, rainwater, the jungle night. So heady and hot Han almost bit into his knuckle, _oh fuck._ Leia slanted Han a glance from under her lashes. He felt transparent, like she could read some message in his own perspiration, gleaming from the deep V at his chest. Han threw her a salute that was jerkily nervous but Leia took as teasing, judging from the indulgent roll of those orodoe eyes as she walked by. Helplessly Han stared after her. Goddamn. It figured. Of course Leia looked killer in fight rig. _Of course she did._ One more arrow in her quiver.

There was a decorous cough. Han looked over at its source, too dumbstruck to maintain his embargo on giving Rell attention. Rell was looking expectantly at Han.

 _Poker. Right. Poker._

Han's eyes ran sightless over numbers, suits, colours. His ears sung. Sweat slithered down his middle into his waistband. His heart worked, trying to send blood somewhere he couldn't allow it. All that heat trapped in his chest, pooling there with intolerable pressure. There was no breath.

With a wet slap Luke unrolled the mats just inside the open doors of the hangar. Luke and Leia began sparring there. Han tried to concentrate on the game but was distracted by clacking staffs, soft whuffs, and laughter.

The pair were well-matched, as fighters. They shared a compact wiriness, their anticipation and counter eerily mirrored. Chemistry, yes, though no sexual tension, their relaxed trash talk told Han that. Yet there was intensity to their just-pulled strikes, finishing drive to both their natures. Approval and camaraderie when they pulled one another to their feet, after one had been swept to the rubber. Money began to change hands. Everyone around the table except Han and Rell left to watch the two battle. Which was a relief because Han didn't need attention on him as he struggled to engage his shields. He was barely coping with getting wise to himself, he didn't need the whole Rebel Alliance to discover it with him: that far from seeing Leia as _sister,_ Han saw her as part tactician, part wild creature. The sexiest fucking vision ever. He wanted to kiss her, kiss that flush right off her—or more color into her. Both. There. Everywhe-

Luke and Leia fell into a standing clinch, face to face. Luke tried to trap Leia in underhooks, but Leia planted a tiny bare foot on Luke's bent thigh, used it as a step. She leapt into her own swing around Luke, onto his back, and then she was pure lethal constriction: ankles twining at Luke's abdomen, left arm hooking at his throat. Her right elbow shot up and bent, locking over that badly healed wrist, right palm finding grip at the back of her own slick neck. Luke tried to escape the choke, ducked and staggered, turning red. But Leia hung on. Leia's entire body flexed, until with a tap to Leia's arm Luke surrendered. Immediately Leia released him, dropping light to the mat, looking concerned into Luke's face, her hand pressed to his back. But Luke slapped palms with her, grinning, gasping. The card players whooped, whistled, and Luke clapped with them. Leia beamed, her huge eyes—whole lovely face—lit and alive. Then, almost shyly, she flushed and dropped her eyes, began to rewrap her hands.

Han didn't clap. He sat stunned. _You better run, Vader._ _Better get a lifesuit for your lifesuit, you undead motherfu—_

"I joined for her," Rell murmured, in Corellian so quiet only Han could hear it.

Then Rell was regaling Han Solo with his noble tale of enlistment. All he gave up to be here, his professional kitchen and fancy speeder, chance at mayor. Girl he was gonna marry, the job with his banker father. Broke his mother's heart, missed his brothers. Listing it all—in that order—like a damn insurance adjuster, cataloguing what had been lost in some natural disaster. He'd given it all _up,_ Rell almost pleaded with Han, and he gestured not at Leia on the mats but at the open hangar doors, in the direction of the Great Temple.

Where was his angel from the holonet, descended from the nine heavens to hand out medals?

Well, Rell didn't put it like _that,_ but. It was there. Han felt his teeth grit into a terrible smile. Something rising in the place of—or in light of—the first overwhelming attraction of Han's life. And this wasn't something he'd felt much, either, outside of freeing Chewie.

Fury.

Not his usual scorn, not lazy judgment. Not impatience, not irritation. Not even the _hairtrigger syndrome_ he'd read when he'd sliced into his Carida file. This emotion was hotter, more vital. Stoked every time Rell said it, _The Princess, the Princess._ Like Han would understand it. Like he and Han were Corellians sharing language and culture, fellow travellers chose the same goddess for their grace medals. Princess Leia, so pure she sanctified everything she touched, but she just wasn't shelling out blessings enough, right? And after Rell laid his rich offerings at her altar!

"I joined for The Princess." Rell said. "To become a better man, and..."

Rell looked back at the mats perplexed, he couldn't reconcile one Leia with the other: the iconic figure and the one sweaty, smudged and kicking the fuck out of the focus mitts Luke held for her. Rell was disappointed, Han saw. He was even _disgusted._

Han's hands twitched where he'd braced them on his thighs. The hands that had closed on the waist of that ruined white dress, gauging a woman's weight and shape. Had to, to hoist her from the water. If, Han thought, Rell and Leia survived the compactor together, she'd have to be hosed down before he would hug her. Prixati Rell, still looking at the spectacular woman right in front of them like she was a sham. A crude imposter. This _human being_ who'd lost her home, her—her horse, her—

She'd lost her _mother._

"Well," Han said, when he was able. Said it slowly, low and steady. Said it in Basic, severance of assumed brotherhood. "You still got your beerbot." He turned, met the shocked blue stare; flicked his own gold eyes to the gleaming chrono on Rell's wrist. "Vronium lining to everything."

And then, another first, Han abandoned card money and left.

XXXXXXXXX

Han had a cold 'fresher and went to bed. Lay awake, trying to convince himself that not all was lost. So what, it was lust! That was all it was. He'd had it backwards, earlier, when he thought it was admiration and affection and protectiveness and the constant surprise of Leia. Her intelligence and courage and humour. Welders, broken wrists and sabacc and a little purple plant he called Plant that had crawled the galley wall since Han rigged the hydroponic light for it. No, it was none of that had been trapping him here. It wasn't anger on her behalf when folk didn't appreciate her toughness, it wasn't big sad warm laughing eyes...

 _What if it still is?_ _All that._ _For her._ Whispered a voice in his head. _Plus lust. What's_ that _astromath?_

"Wrong!" Han barked aloud.

Lust. _Just_ lust. All along. Good old libido overload signal. It was actually a good thing! Han had solved the fascination forever. Leia had a hot ass and a mean right hook, more power to her! Yeah, Han thought it like that. He blustered crassly like this, worried eyes searching the blue-lit ceiling of his cabin. _Game over, Solo. Now go to sleep, wake up, jerk off, and leave her._

And Han did sleep. And Han had a dream.

Leia, her weight exquisite and torturous in his lap. Only thing between them a thin scrap of cloth, and when Han looked down, he was dressed and she was not. Leia wore some wispy...slip, or nightie, or whatever the Rhinnalese called it. Red. Her lips red too, and curved, and she was feeding him, bite by bite. Fork to his mouth in slow inexorable play; lean into him, lean back. And he knew Leia was his for the taking. Gave Han a rush so strong he didn't notice, at first, the undertone—sharp, fine, like a needle of bone left in a melting mouthful. Han tried to catch her, could grasp her to his chest. But the tighter he held, the more desperately he kissed her, the less responsive Leia got. Her mouth stayed smiling, but her eyes were glassy and absent.

It was a dream so ugly Han sat up choking. Woke with his arm extended, palm up and out, warding something off—her, himself? He flung out of bed. Stormed to the second hold, mad at his subconscious for disrespecting his comprehension. Couldn't have made those symbols any more clunky, huh? Why didn't he dream of fucking Leia Organa on the Death Star in a pit of credits, while he was at it? Why didn't his conscience just kick it to him straight? He knew who he was. There was grievance and terror in the way Han seized a handle, jerked a box to his chest. But his shaking hands refused to open the latch, so he could lay his eyes on the soothing gleam of clean currency. The whiteness of his knuckles standing in for some long-suppressed bawl of claim, of vindication.

 _This is mine._

This crate was for Jabba. That one his legit license, and that one—

Han slammed down the box, paced, hand tearing through his hair. Damn it, damn it, no. Whatever he was thinking, no. This money was _his:_ his past, his future. His ideal life, his safety from death. _That_ was the goddamn astromath. He had earned it by turning around over Yavin. Leia had asked him, once, that time they got drunk, what brought Han back. _It was Chewie, wasn't it,_ she said, endearingly secure in her own rightness. He'd smiled enigmatically, lifted his glass. Glad, at the time, that that was what Leia believed, and meanwhile safe in the knowledge that it was actually so he could enjoy his cash. Relieved that neither of them looked at Han and saw a man he simply couldn't be.

But it wasn't Chewie, though he'd sure approved. First mate didn't give the orders. It was Han who'd jerked the yoke, with a furious laugh that was part frustration, part gallows laughter. Helpless before that stupid stubborn idea of fairness, which he was stuck with for life, like some chronic illness. Han had scruples. Were those the same as rules? Who knew. A guy could only do what didn't make him sick.

Swallowing, Han leaned on a stiff arm, at the wall. Eyes passing over his treasure, his reward. His respect. His safety. His proof he wouldn't be a two-bit hustler all his life. Still some frantic bargaining in him. Fairness. Was it fair that if he gave the money back, he'd be farther in the red than where he started? No going legit, he'd be skulking the galaxy shipping Balderian porno flicks. A fugitive. Probably end up fed to a Rancor. No, not fair. Not fair. But what was fair to Leia? Han had flown through her exploded home and he'd still thrown a dead Stormtrooper's boots up on a blinking panel, negotiated his price for her survival. He'd thought that well in bounds. She'd be fine because rich people were always fine, because that was what money meant. Nothing could touch you. Perfect safety. It was a principle old as arithmetic.

Han closed his eyes in genuine shame. _Sweetheart._ Was it fair that he was hoarding the price of her body, now that he was imagining himself on his knees before her? Imagining saying her name into her navel, between her thighs, against her breasts, into her quickened breath. Wondering if Leia's hair, loose, hid her nipples, her hips, or if all her peaks and swells and pinks peeked through. Finding out if Leia came the way she laughed, wholehearted, heedless, or if she muffled it the way she did the amusement Han inflicted on her in briefings—biting into her lip, the heel of her hand. Or if she got off the way she fought, the way she smelled, taut and hot and wet. Chasing the kill, all tensile flex.

Ah, he was filthy. Han winced. Guilty.

But it wasn't simple sex Han wanted. The kind he had easily taken or left, all these years, while congratulating himself on his discipline. What a laugh; what a fool. Han wanted closeness to Leia. He wanted all of Leia, although he knew was not entitled to her. Had no chance of deserving her. Han wasn't Rell. He knew he had no chance of deserving her. Knew whatever he got of her wouldn't be enough. Knew that he could meet Boba Fett for it. Yet he felt relief, to clearly face it, the final edict. There was a price to stay with Leia, and he would pay it, even at risk of his own life.

He knew the customs. He knew the costs.

He was Han Solo. And he was that ruthless, even with himself.


End file.
